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THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 


,  OF  GAL4F.  UMIAK*.  LOi 


THE 

STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE 

BY 

JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING 

AUTHOR   OF   "  JACKANAPES,"    "  DADDY  DARWIN'S   DOVECOT,"    ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

JOSEPH  KNIGHT  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BY 
JOSEPH  KNIGHT  COMPANY 


$rtssfoorfc  bg  Colonial  Press: 

C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


7 


"  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhored  shears 
And  slits  the  thin  spun  life,  — '  But  not  the  praise.'"  Milton. 

'•  It  is  a  calumny  on  men  to  say  that  they  are  roused  to  heroic  action  by 
ease,  hope  of  pleasure,  recompense, —  sugar  plums  of  any  kind  in  this 
world  or  the  next!  In  the  meanest  mortal  there  lies  something  nobler.  .  .  . 
Difficulty,  abnegation,  martyrdom,  death,  are  the  allurements  that  act  on 
the  heart  of  man.  Kindle  the  inner  genial  life  of  him,  you  have  a  flame 
that  burns  up  all  lower  considerations.  .  .  .  Not  By  flattering  our 
appetites;  no,  by  awakening  the  Heroic  that  slumbers  in  every  heart."  — 
-Carlyle. 


2129208 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  I i 


CHAPTER  II 22 

"  an  acre   of  barren  ground;    ling,  heath,  broom, 

furze,  anything." 

CHAPTER  III 31 

"  Ut  migraturus  habita."  ("  Dwell  as  if  about  to  de- 
part.") 

CHAPTER  IV. 45 

"  My  mind  is  in  the  anomalous  condition  of  hating  war, 
and  loving  its  discipline,  which  has  been  an  incalculable 
contribution  to  the  sentiment  of  duty." 

CHAPTER  V 64 

"  Oh  that  a  man  might  know  the  end  of  this  day's  busi- 
ness ere  it  comes  !  " 

CHAPTER  VI 72 

"  I  will  do  it. " 

CHAPTER  VII 83 

"  What  is  there  in  the  world  to  distinguish  virtues  from 
dishonor,  or  that  can  make  anything  rewardable,  but  the 
labor  and  the  danger,  the  pain  and  the  difficulty  ?  " 


CONTENTS.  — Concluded. 


CHATTER  VIII 93 

"  I  am  a  man  of  no  strength  at  all  of  body,  nor  yet  of 
mind,  but  would,  if  I  could,  though  I  can  but  crawl,  spend 
my  life  in  the  pilgrims'  way." 

CHAPTER  IX 100 

"  St.  George!  a  stirring  life  t 
That  have  such  neighbors  i 

CHAPTER  X. 106 

"  Fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form." 

CHAPTER  XI 120 

"  I  have  fought  a  good  fight.  I  have  finished  my  course. 
I  have  kept  the  faith.  Henceforth —  !  " 

CHAPTER  XII 131 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged-bird's  nest  may  know 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown." 


LLVSTRATI 


PAGE 
'  HE     WAS     SEATED     AMONG     THE     CUSHIONS    OF     THE 

ORIEL  WINDOW" Frontispiece. 

•AND  STANDING  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  YOUNG 
CAVALIER,  LEONARD  SANG  His  WEDNESDAY  TEXT 
ALL  THROUGH" 20 

'THEY      HAD       BEEN       SITTING      TOGETHER      FOR     SOME 

TIME" 41 

'AND    WHEN    HE    HAD    GONE    BACK    TO    HlS   OWN 

PARADE  WITH  A  LARGE  PIECE  OF  CAKE"     .        .        65 

1  To  THIS  POINT  LADY  JANE'S  MEDITATIONS  BROUGHT 

HER" 78 

1  SOMETIMES  FOR  A  BIT  I  FORGET  ABOUT  THE  KING  "        91 

"A    REAL,   PROPER,   BLUE    DRESSING-GOWN,    AND    A 

CRIMSON  TIE" 108 

•HE  APPLIED  HIMSELF  TO  His  MOTHER'S  LETTER"  .      134 

1  HE   LIVED    AND    DIED   A    SOLDIER'S    DOG  "    .  .  .          145 


THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Arma  virumque  cano."  —  sEneid. 

"  Man  —  and  the  horseradish  —  are  most  biting  when  grated." 
—  Jean  Paul  Richter. 

"  MOST  annoying !  "  said  the  Master  of  the 
House.  His  thick  eyebrows  were  puckered 
just  then  with  the  vexation  of  his  thoughts ; 
but  the  lines  of  annoyance  on  his  forehead 
were  to  some  extent  fixed  lines.  They  helped 
to  make  him  look  older  than  his  age  —  he  was 
not  forty — and  they  gathered  into  a  fierce 
frown  as  his  elbow  was  softly  touched  by  his 
little  son. 

The  child  was  defiantly  like  his  father,  even 
to  a  knitted  brow,  for  his  whole  face  was 
crumpled  with  the  vigor  of  some  resolve  which 
he  found  it  hard  to  keep,  and  which  was  sym- 
bolized by  his  holding  the  little  red  tip  of  his 
tongue  betwixt  finger  and  thumb. 

"  Put  your  hands  down,  Leonard  !  Put  your 
tongue  in,  sir  !  What  are  you  after?  What 


2  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

do  you  want?  What  are  you  doing  here?  Be 
off  to  the  nursery,  and  tell  Jemima  to  keep  you 
there.  Your  mother  and  I  are  busy." 

Far  behind  the  boy,  on  the  wall,  hung  the 
portrait  of  one  of  his  ancestors,  —  a  youth  of 
sixteen.  The  painting  was  by  Vandyck,  and 
it  was  the  most  valuable  of  the  many  valuable 
things  that  strewed  and  decorated  the  room, 
—  a  very  perfect  example  of  the  great  master's 
work,  and  uninjured  by  time.  The  young 
Cavalier's  face  was  more  interesting  than  hand- 
some, but  so  eager  and  refined  that,  set  off  as 
it  was  by  pale-hued  satin  and  falling  hair,  he 
might  have  been  called  effeminate,  if  his  brief 
life,  which  ended  on  the  field  of  Naseby,  had 
not  done  more  than  common  to  prove  his  man- 
hood. A  coat-of-arms,  blazoned  in  the  corner 
of  the  painting,  had  some  appearance  of  having 
been  added  later.  Below  this  was  rudely  in- 
scribed, in  yellow  paint,  the  motto  which  also 
decorated  the  elaborate  stone  mantelpiece  or>- 
posite,  —  Latus  sorte  me  a. 

Leonard  was  very  fond  of  that  picture.  It 
was  known  to  his  childish  affections  as  "  Uncle 
Rupert."  He  constantly  wished  that  he  could 
get  into  the  frame  and  play  with  the  dog  —  the 
dog  with  the  upturned  face  and  melancholy 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  3 

eyes,  and  odd  resemblance  to  a  long-haired 
cavalier  —  on  whose  faithful  head  Uncle  Ru- 
pert's slender  fingers  perpetually  reposed. 

Though  not  able  to  play  with  the  dog,  Leon- 
ard did  play  with  Uncle  Rupert  —  the  game  of 
trying  to  get  out  of  the  reach  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  play  '  Puss-in-the-corner  '  with  him,"  the 
child  was  wont  to  explain ;  "  but  whichever 
corner  I  get  into,  his  eyes  come  after  me.  The 
dog  looks  at  Uncle  Rupert  always,  and  Uncle 
Rupert  always  looks  at  me."  ..."  To  see 
if  you  are  growing  up  a  good  boy  and  a 
gallant  young  gentleman,  such  as  he  was."  So 
Leonard's  parents  and  guardians  explained  the 
matter  to  him,  and  he  devoutly  believed  them. 

Many  an  older  and  less  credulous  spectator 
stood  in  the  light  of  those  painted  eyes,  and 
acknowledged  their  spell.  Very  marvellous  was 
the  cunning  which,  by  dabs  and  streaks  of  color, 
had  kept  the  spirit  of  this  long-dead  youth  to 
gaze  at  his  descendants  from  a  sheet  of  canvas 
and  stir  the  sympathy  of  strangers,  parted  by 
more  than  two  centuries  from  his  sorrows,  with 
the  mock  melancholy  of  painted  tears.  For 
whether  the  painter  had  just  overdone  some 
trick  of  representing  their  liquidness,  or  whether 
the  boy's  eyes  had  brimmed  over  as  he  was 


4  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

standing  for  his  portrait  (his  father  and  elder 
brother  had  died  in  the  civil  war  before  him), 
there  remains  no  tradition  to  tell.  But  Vandyck 
never  painted  a  portrait  fuller  of  sad  dignity, 
even  in  those  troubled  times. 

Happily  for  his  elders,  Leonard  invented  for 
himself  a  reason  for  the  obvious  tears. 

"  I  believe  Uncle  Rupert  knew  that  they  were 
going  to  chop  the  poor  king's  head  off,  and 
that's  why  he  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry." 

It  was  partly  because  the  child  himself  looked 
as  if  he  were  going  to  cry  —  and  that  not  frac- 
tiously,  but  despite  a  struggle  with  himself — 
that,  as  he  stood  before  the  Master  of  the 
House,  he  might  have  been  that  other  master  of 
the  same  house  come  to  life  again  at  six  years 
of  age.  His  long,  fair  hair,  the  pliable,  nervous 
fingers,  which  he  had  put  down  as  he  was  bid, 
the  strenuous  tension  of  his  little  figure  under  a 
sense  of  injustice,  and,  above  all,  his  beautiful 
eyes,  in  which  the  tears  now  brimmed  over  the 
eyelashes  as  the  waters  of  a  lake  well  up  through 
the  reeds  that  fringe  its  banks.  He  was  very, 
very  like  Uncle  Rupert  when  he  turned  those 
eyes  on  his  mother  in  mute  reproach. 

Lady  Jane  came  to  his  defence. 

"  I   think   Leonard   meant  to   be    good.       I 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  5 

made  him  promise  me  to  try  and  cure  himself 
of  the  habit  of  speaking  to  you  when  you  are 
speaking  to  some  one  else.  But,  dear  Leonard  " 
(and  she  took  the  hand  that  had  touched  his 
father's  elbow),  "  I  don't  think  you  were  quite 
on  honor  when  you  interrupted  father  with  this 
hand,  though  you  were  holding  your  tongue 
with  the  other.  That  is  what  we  call  keeping 
a  promise  to  the  ear  and  breaking  it  to  the 
sense." 

All  the  Cavalier  dignity  came  unstarched  in 
Leonard's  figure.  With  a  red  face,  he  answered 
bluntly,  "  I'm  very  sorry.  I  meant  to  keep  my 
promise." 

"  Next  time  keep  it  well,  as  a  gentleman 
should.  Now,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"Pencil  and  paper,  please." 

"There  they  arc.  Take  them  to  the  nursery, 
as  father  told  you." 

Leonard  looked  at  his  father.  He  had  not 
been  spoilt  for  six  years  by  an  irritable  and  in- 
dulgent parent  without  learning  those  arts  of 
diplomacy  in  which  children  quickly  become 
experts. 

"  Oh,  he  can  stay,"  said  the  Master  of  the 
House,  "  and  he  may  say  a  word  now  and  then, 
if  he  doesn't  talk  too  much.  Boys  can't  sit 


6  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

mumchance  always  —  can  they,  Len  ?  There, 
kiss  your  poor  old  father,  and  get  away,  and 
keep  quiet." 

Lady  Jane  made  one  of  many  fruitless  ef- 
forts on  behalf  of  discipline. 

"  I  think,  dear,  as  you  told  him  to  go,  he  had 
better  go  now." 

"  He  will  go,  pretty  sharp,  if  he  isn't  good. 
Now,  for  pity's  sake,  let's  talk  out  this  affair, 
and  let  me  get  back  to  my  work." 

"  Have  you  been  writing  poetry  this  morn- 
ing, father  dear?"  Leonard  inquired,  urbanely. 

He  was  now  lolling  against  a  writing-table  of 
the  first  empire,  where  sheets  of  paper  lay  like 
fallen  leaves  among  Japanese  bronzes,  old  and 
elaborate  candlesticks,  grotesque  letter-clips 
and  paper-weights,  quaint  pottery,  big  seals, 
and  spring  flowers  in  slender  Venetian  glasses 
of  many  colors. 

"  I  wrote  three  lines,  and  was  interrupted  four 
times,"  replied  his  sire,  with  bitter  brevity. 

"  I  think  /'//  write  some  poetry.  I  don't 
mind  being  interrupted.  May  I  have  your  ink  ?  " 

"  No,  you  may  not!"  roared  the  Master  of 
the  House  and  of  the  inkpot  of  priceless  china 
which  Leonard  had  seized.  "Now,  be  off  to 
the  nursery !  " 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  / 

"  I  won't  touch  anything.  I  am  going  to 
draw  out  of  the  window,"  said  Leonard,  calmly. 

He  had  practised  the  art  of  being  trouble- 
some to  the  verge  of  expulsion  ever  since  he 
had  had  a  whim  of  his  own,  and  as  skilfully  as 
he  played  other  games.  He  was  seated  among 
the  cushions  of  the  oriel  window-seat  (colored 
rays  from  coats-of-arms  in  the  upper  panes  fall- 
ing on  his  fair  hair  with  a  fanciful  effect  of  can- 
onizing him  for  his  sudden  goodness)  almost 
before  his  father  could  reply. 

"  I  advise  you  to  stay  there,  and  to  keep 
quiet."  Lady  Jane  took  up  the  broken  thread 
of  conversation  in  despair. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him?  "    • 

"  Yes  ;  years  ago." 

"  You  know  I  never  saw  either.  Your  sister 
was  much  older  than  you  ;  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  The  shadows  move  so  on  tlic  grass,  and  the 
elms  Jiavc  so  many  branches,  I  til  ink  I  s/iall  turn 
round  and  draw  tJie  fireplace"  murmured  Leon- 
ard. 

"Ten  years.  You  may  be  sure,  if  I  had 
been  grown  up  I  should  never  have  allowed  the 
marriage.  I  cannot  think  what  possessed  my 
father 

"  /  am  doing  the  inscription  !     I  can  print 


8  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Old  English.  What  does  L.  diphthong  ;E.  T. 
U.  S.  mean  ?  "  said  Leonard. 

"It  means  joyful,  contented,  liappy. —  I  was 
at  Eton  at  the  time.  Disastrous  ill-luck  !  " 

"Are  there  any  children?  " 

"  One  son.  And  to  crown  all,  his  regiment 
is  at  Asholt.  Nice  family  party !  " 

"  A  young  man  !  Has  he  been  well  brought 
up?" 

"  What  does  —  " 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Leonard  ? —  Is 
he  likely  to  have  been  well  brought  up  ?  How- 
ever, he's  'in  the  Service,'  as  they  say.  I  wish 
it  didn't  make  one  think  of  flunkeys,  what  with 
the  word  service,  and  the  liveries  (I  mean  uni- 
forms), and  the  legs,  and  shoulders,  and  swag- 
ger, and  tag-rags,  and  epaulettes,  and  the 
fatiguing  alertness  and  attentiveness  of  '  men  in 
the  Service. ' " 

The  Master  of  the  House  spoke  with  the 
pettish  accent  of  one  who  says  what  he  does 
not  mean,  partly  for  lack  of  something  better  to 
do,  and  partly  to  avenge  some  inward  vexation 
upon  his  hearers.  He  lounged  languidly  on  a 
couch,  but  Lady  Jane  sat  upright,  and  her  eyes 
gave  an  unwonted  flash.  She  came  of  an  an- 
cient Scottish  race,  that  had  shed  its  blood  like 


THE    STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  9 

water  on  many  a  battle-field,  generations  before 
the  family  of  her  English  husband  had  become 
favorites  at  the  Court  of  the  Tudors. 

"  I  have  so  many  military  belongings,  both 
in  the  past  and  the  present,  that  I  have  a  re- 
spect for  the  Service  —  " 

He  got  up  and  patted  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  child.  Et ego"  — 
and  he  looked  at  Uncle  Rupert,  who  looked 
sadly  back  again:  "but  you  must  make  allow- 
ances for  me.  Asholt  Camp  has  been  a  thorn 
in  my  side  from  the  first.  And  now  to  have 
the  barrack  master,  and  the  youngest  subaltern 
of  a  marching  regiment — " 

"  He's  our  nephew,  Rupert !  " 

"Mine — not  yours.  You've  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  thank  goodness." 

"  Your  people  are  my  people.  Now  do  not 
worry  yourself.  Of  course  I  shall  call  on  your 
sister  at  once.  Will  they  be  here  for  some 
time?" 

"Five  years,  you  may  depend.  He's  just 
the  sort  of  man  to  wedge  himself  into  a  snug 
berth  at  Asholt.  You're  an  angel,  Jane ;  you 
always  are.  But  fighting  ancestors  are  one 
thing;  a  barrack-master  brother-in-law  is  an- 
other." 


IO  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

"Has  he  done  any  fighting?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  !  Bemedalled  like  that  Guy 
Fawkes  general  in  the  pawnbroker's  window, 
that  Len  was  so  charmed  by.  But,  my  dear,  I 
assure  you — " 

"  I only  just  want  to  know  wJiat  S.  O.  R.  T. 
E.  M.  E.  A.  means"  Leonard  hastily  broke  in. 
"  I've  done  it  all  MOW,  and  sha'n't  want  to  know 
anything  more." 

"  Sorte  mea  is  Latin  for  '  my  fate,'  or  '  my  lot 
in  life'  Liztus  sorte  mea  means  '  happy  in  my 
lot'  It  is  our  family  motto.  Now,  if  you  ask 
another  question,  off  you  go  ! — After  all,  Jane, 
you  must  allow  it's  about  as  hard  lines  as  could 
be,  to  have  a  few  ancestral  acres  and  a  nice  old 
place  in  one  of  the  quietest,  quaintest  corners 
of  old  England ;  and  for  Government  to  come 
and  plant  a  Camp  of  Instruction,  as  they  call 
it,  and  pour  in  tribes  of  savages  in  war-paint  to 
build  wigwams  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  your 
lodge-gates ! " 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"  Dear  Rupert !  You  arc  a  born  poet !  You 
do  magnify  your  woes  so  grandly.  What  was 
the  brother-in-law  like  when  you  saw  him?" 

"  Oh,  the  regular  type.  Hair  cut  like  a  pau- 
per, or  a  convict"  (the  Master  of  the  House 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  II 

tossed  his  own  locks  as  he  spoke),  "big,  swag- 
gering sort  of  fellow,  swallowed  the  poker  and 
not  digested  it,  rather  good  features,  acclima- 
tized complexion,  tight  fit  of  hot-red  cloth,  and 
general  pipeclay." 

"  Then  lie  must  be  the  sapper  /"  Leonard  an- 
nounced, as  he  advanced  with  a  firm  step  and 
kindling  eyes  from  the  window.  "Jemima's 
other  brother  is  a  gunner.  He  dresses  in  blue. 
But  they  both  pipeclay  their  gloves,  and  I  pipe- 
clayed mine  this  morning,  when  she  did  the 
hearth.  You've  no  idea  how  nasty  they  look 
while  it's  wet,  but  they  dry  as  white  as  snow, 
only  mine  fell  among  the  cinders.  The  sapper 
is  very  kind,  both  to  her  and  to  me.  He  gave 
her  a  brooch,  and  he  is  making  me  a  wooden 
fort  to  put  my  cannon  in.  But  the  gunner  is 
such  a  funny  man  !  I  said  to  him,  '  Gunner  ! 
why  do  you  wear  white  gloves?'  and  he  said, 
'  Young  gentleman,  why  does  a  miller  wear  a 
white  hat?'  He's  very  funny.  But  I  think  I 
like  the  tidy  one  best  of  all.  He  is  so  very 
beautiful,  and  I  should  think  he  must  be  very 
brave." 

That  Leonard  was  permitted  to  deliver  him- 
self of  this  speech  without  a  check  can  only 
have  been  due  to  the  paralyzing  nature  of  the 


12  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

shock  which  it  inflicted  on  his  parents,  and  of 
which  he  himself  was  pleasantly  unconscious. 
His  whole  soul  was  in  the  subject,  and  he  spoke 
with  a  certain  grace  and  directness  of  address, 
and  with  a  clear  and  facile  enunciation,  which 
were  among  the  child's  most  conspicuous  marks 
of  good  breeding. 

"  This  is  nice  !  "  said  the  Master  of  the  House 
between  his  teeth  with  a  deepened  scowl. 

The  air  felt  stormy,  and  Leonard  began  to 
coax.  He  laid  his  curls  against  his  father's 
arm,  and  asked,  "  Did  you  ever  see  a  tidy  one, 
father  dear?  He  is  a  very  splendid  sort  of 
man." 

"What  nonsense  are  you  talking?  What  do 
you  mean  by  a  tidy  one  ?  " 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  storm  now ; 
and  Leonard  began  to  feel  helpless,  and,  as 
usual  in  such  circumstances,  turned  to  Lady 
Jane. 

"  Mother  told  me !  "  he  gasped. 

The  Master  of  the  House  also  turned  to  Lady 
Jane. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  of  this  be- 
fore ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  seized  his  son 
by  the  shoulder. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  13 

"If  that  woman  has  taught  you  to  tell  un- 
truths — 

Lady  Jane  firmly  interposed. 

"  Leonard  never  tells  untruths,  Rupert. 
Please  don't  frighten  him  into  doing  so.  Now, 
Leonard,  don't  be  foolish  and  cowardly.  Tell 
mother  quite  bravely  all  about  it.  Perhaps  she 
has  forgotten." 

The  child  was  naturally  brave ;  but  the  ele- 
ments of  excitement  and  uncertainty  in  his  up- 
bringing were  producing  their  natural  results 
in  a  nervous  and  unequable  temperament.  It 
is  not  the  least  serious  of  the  evils  of  being 
"spoilt,"  though,  perhaps,  the  most  seldom 
recognized.  Many  a  fond  parent  justly  fears 
to  overdo  "  lessons,"  who  is  surprisingly  blind 
to  the  brain-fag  that  comes  from  the  strain 
to  live  at  grown-up  people's  level ;  and  to 
the  nervous  exhaustion  produced  in  children, 
no  less  than  in  their  elders,  by  indulged  rest- 
lessness, discontent,  and  craving  for  fresh  ex- 
citement, and  for  want  of  that  sense  of  power 
and  repose  which  comes  with  habitual  obedience 
to  righteous  rules  and  regulations.  Laws  that 
can  be  set  at  naught  are  among  the  most 
demoralizing  of  influences  which  can  curse 
a  nation ;  and  their  effects  are  hardly  less 


14  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

disastrous  in  the  nursery.  Moreover,  an  un- 
certain discipline  is  apt  to  take  even  the  spoilt 
by  surprise ;  and,  as  Leonard  seldom  fully 
understood  the  checks  he  did  receive,  they  un- 
nerved him.  He  was  unnerved  now ;  and,  even 
with  his  hand  in  that  of  his  mother,  he  stam- 
mered over  his  story  with  ill-repressed  sobs 
and  much  mental  confusion. 

"  W — we  met  him  out  walking.  I  m — mean 
we  were  out  walking.  He  was  out  riding.  He 
looked  like  a  picture  in  my  t — t — tales  from 
Froissart.  He  had  a  very  curious  kind  of  a 
helmet  —  n — not  quite  a  helmet,  and  a  beauti- 
ful green  feather  —  at  least,  n — not  exactly  a 
feather,  and  a  beautiful  red  waistcoat,  only  n — 
not  a  real  waistcoat,  b — but — " 

"  Send  him  to  bed  !  "  roared  the  Master  of 
the  House.  "  Don't  let  him  prevaricate  any 
more !  " 

"  No,  Rupert,  please !  I  wish  him  to  try 
and  give  a  straight  account.  Now,  Leonard, 
don't  be  a  baby;  but  go  on  and  tell  the  truth, 
like  a  brave  boy." 

Leonard  desperately  proceeded,  sniffing  as 
he  did  so. 

"  He  c — carried  a  spear,  like  an  old  warrior. 
He  truthfully  did.  On  my  honor  !  One  end 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  15 

was  on  the  tip  of  his  foot,  and  there  was  a  flag 
at  the  other  end  —  a  real  fluttering  pennon  — 
there  truthfully  was !  He  does  poke  with  his 
sp^ar  in  battle,  I  do  believe;  but  he  didn't  poke 
us.  He  was  b — b — beautiful  to  b — b — be 
— hold !  I  asked  Jemima,  '  Is  he  another 
brother,  for  you  do  have  such  very  nice 
brothers?  '  and  she  said,  '  No,  he's  — 

"  Hang  Jemima  !  "  said  the  Master  of  the 
House.  "  Now  listen  to  me.  You  said  your 
mother  told  you.  What  did  she  tell  you?  " 

"  Je — Je — Jemima  said,  '  No,  he's  a'  or- 
derly ' ;  and  asked  the  way  —  I  qu — quite  for- 
get where  to  —  I  truthfully  do.  And  next 
morning  I  asked  mother  what  does  orderly 
mean?  And  she  said  tidy.  So  I  call  him  the 
tidy  one.  Dear  mother,  you  truthfully  did  — 
at  least,"  added  Leonard  chivalrously,  as  Lady 
Jane's  face  gave  no  response,  "  at  least,  if  you've 
forgotten,  never  mind  :  it's  my  fault." 

But  Lady  Jane's  face  was  blank  because  she 
was  trying  not  to  laugh.  The  Master  of  the 
House  did  not  try  long.  He  bit  his  lip,  and 
then  burst  into  a  peal. 

"  Better  say  no  more  to  him,"  murmured 
Lady  Jane.  "  I'll  see  Jemima  now,  if  he  may 
stay  with  you." 


1 6  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

He  nodded,  and  throwing  himself  back  on 
the  couch,  held  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"  Well,  that'll  do.  Put  these  men  out  of  your 
head,  and  let  me  see  your  drawing." 

Leonard  stretched  his  faculties,  and  perceived 
that  the  storm  was  overpast.  He  clambered  on 
to  his  father's  knee,  and  their  heads  were  soon 
bent  lovingly  together  over  the  much-smudged 
sheet  of  paper,  on  which  the  motto  from  the 
chimney-piece  was  irregularly  traced. 

"You  should  have  copied  it  from  Uncle 
Rupert's  picture.  It  is  in  plain  letters  there." 

Leonard  made  no  reply.  His  head  now  lay 
back  on  his  father's  shoulder,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  ceiling,  which  was  of  Elizabethan 
date,  with  fantastic  flo\vers  in  raised  plaster- 
work.  But  Leonard  did  not  see  them  at  that 
moment.  His  vision  was  really  turned  inwards. 
Presently  he  said,  "  I  am  trying  to  think.  Don't 
interrupt  me,  father,  if  you  please." 

The  Master  of  the  House  smiled,  and  gazed 
complacently  at  the  face  beside  him.  No 
painting,  no  china  in  his  possession,  was  more 
beautiful.  Suddenly  the  boy  jumped  down 
and  stood  alone,  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  and  his  eyes  tightly  shut. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  1 7 

"  I  am  thinking  very  hard,  father.  Please 
tell  me  again  what  our  motto  means." 

"  '  Lcetus  sorte  mea,  —  Happy  in  my  lot.' 
What  are  you  puzzling  your  little  brains  about?  " 

"  Because  I  know  I  know  something  so  like 
it,  and  I  can't  think  what!  Yes  —  no!  Wait 
a  minute  !  I've  just  got  it !  Yes,  I  remember 
now :  it  was  my  Wednesday  text !  " 

He  opened  wide  shining  eyes,  and  clapped 
his  hands,  and  his  clear  voice  rang  with  the 
added  note  of  triumph,  as  he  cried,  " '  The  lot 
is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground.  Yea,  I  have 
a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  held  out  his  arms 
without  speaking ;  but  when  Leonard  had 
climbed  back  into  them,  he  stroked  the  child's 
hair  slowly,  and  said,  "Is  that  your  Wednesday 
text?" 

"Last  Wednesday's.  I  learn  a  text  every 
day.  Jemima  sets  them.  She  says  her  grand- 
mother made  her  learn  texts  when  she  was  a 
little  girl.  Now,  father  dear,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  wish  you  would  do :  and  I  want  you  to  do  it 
at  once  —  this  very  minute." 

"That  is  generally  the  date  of  your  desires. 
What  is  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about, 


1 8  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

but  I  know  what  I  want.  Now  you  and  I  are 
all  alone  to  our  very  selves,  I  want  you  to  come 
to  the  organ,  and  put  that  text  to  music  like 
the  anthem  you  made  out  of  those  texts  mother 
chose  for  you,  for  the  harvest  festival.  I'll  tell 
you  the  words,  for  fear  you  don't  quite  remem- 
ber them,  and  I'll  blow  the  bellows.  You  may 
play  on  all-fours  with  both  your  feet  and  hands  ; 
you  may  pull  out  trumpet  handle ;  you  may 
make  as  much  noise  as  ever  you  like  —  you'll 

see  how  I'll  blow  !  " 

****** 

Satisfied  by  the  sounds  of  music  that  the  two 
were  happy,  Lady  Jane  was  in  no  haste  to  go 
back  to  the  library ;  but,  when  she  did  return, 
Leonard  greeted  her  warmly. 

He  was  pumping  at  the  bellows  handle  of  the 
chamber  organ,  before  which  sat  the  Master  of 
the  House,  not  a  ruffle  on  his  brow,  playing 
with  "all-fours,"  and  singing  as  he  played. 

Leonard's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  he  cried 
impatiently, — 

"  Mother  !  Mother  dear  !  I've  been  want- 
ing you  ever  so  long  !  Father  has  set  my  text 
to  music,  and  I  want  you  to  hear  it ;  but  I  want 
to  sit  by  him  and  sing  too.  So  you  must  come 
and  blow." 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  19 

"  Nonsense,  Leonard  !  Your  mother  must  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Jane  !  Listen  to  this  !  — 
In  a  fa — air  grou — nd.  Bit  of  pure  melody, 
that,  eh?  The  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey  seems  to  stretch  before  one's  eyes." 

"  No  !  father,  that  is  unfair.  You  are  not  to 
tell  her  bits  in  the  middle.  Begin  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  —  mother  dear,  will  you  blow,  and 
let  me  sing?  " 

"Certainly.  Yes,  Rupert,  please.  I've  dont 
it  before ;  and  my  back  isn't  aching  to-day. 
Do  let  me  !  " 

"Yes,  do  let  her,"  said  Leonard,  conclusively  ; 
and  he  swung  himself  up  into  the  seat  beside 
his  father  without  more  ado. 

"  Now,  father,  begin  !  Mother,  listen  !  And 
when  it  comes  to  'Yea,'  and  I  pull  trumpet 
handle  out,  blow  as  hard  as  ever  you  can. 
This  first  bit — when  he  only  plays  —  is  very 
gentle,  and  quite  easy  to  blow." 

Deep  breathing  of  the  organ  filled  a  brief 
silence,  then  a  prelude  stole  about  the  room. 
Leonard's  eyes  devoured  his  father's  face,  and 
the  Master  of  the  House,  looking  down  on  him 
with  the  double  complacency  of  father  and 
composer,  began  to  sing:  — 

"'The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen    un-to  me'"; 


20 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


and,  his  mouth  wide-parted  with  smiles,  Leon- 
ard sang  also:  "  'The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  — 
fallen  un-to  me.'" 


"  '  In  a  fa — air  grou — nd.'  " 
"'Yea!'     (Now,    mother   dear,    blow!    and 
fancy  you  hear  trumpets  !  ") 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  21 

"  '  Yea  !  YEA  !  I  have  a  good-ly  her — i — 
tage !  ' " 

And  after  Lady  Jane  had  ceased  to  blow, 
and  the  musician  to  make  music,  Leonard  still 
danced  and  sang  wildly  about  the  room. 

"Isn't  it  splendid,  mother?  Father  and  I 
made  it  together  out  of  my  Wednesday  text. 
Uncle  Rupert,  can  you  hear  it?  I  don't  think 
you  can.  I  believe  you  are  dead  and  deaf, 
though  you  seem  to  see." 

And  standing  face  to  face  with  the  young 
Cavalier,  Leonard  sang  his  Wednesday  text  all 
through :  — 

"  'The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground ; 
yea,  I  have  a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

But  Uncle  Rupert  spoke  no  word  to  his 
young  kinsman,  though  he  still  "seemed  to 
see  "  through  eyes  drowned  in  tears. 


22  THE   STORY    OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

—  "an  acre  of  barren  ground;  ling,  heath,  broom,  furze,  any- 
thing."—  Tempest,  Act  I.  Scene  I. 

"  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 

— Scott. 

TAKE  a  Highwayman's  Heath. 

Destroy  every  vestige  of  life  with  fire  and 
axe,  from  the  pine  that  has  longest  been  a  land- 
mark, to  the  smallest  beetle  smothered  in  smok- 
ing moss. 

Burn  acres  of  purple  and  pink  heather,  and 
pare  away  the  young  bracken  that  springs  ver- 
dant from  its  ashes. 

Let  flame  consume  the  perfumed  gorse  in  all 
its  glory,  and  not  spare  the  broom,  whose  more 
exquisite  yellow  atones  for  its  lack  of  fra- 
grance. 

In  this  common  ruin  be  every  lesser  flower 
involved :  blue  beds  of  speedwell  by  the  way- 
farer's path  —  the  daintier  milkwort,  and  rougher 
red  rattle  — down  to  the  very  dodder  that  clasps 
the  heather,  let  them  perish,  and  the  face  of 
Dame  Nature  be  utterly  blackened  !  Then ;  — 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  23 

Shave  the  heath  as  bare  as  the  back  of  your 
hand,  and  if  you  have  felled  every  tree,  and 
left  not  so  much  as  a  tussock  of  grass  or  a  scar- 
let toadstool  to  break  the  force  of  the  winds ; 
then  shall  the  winds  come,  from  the  east  and 
from  the  west,  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south,  and  shall  raise  on  your  shaven  heath 
clouds  of  sand  that  would  not  discredit  a  desert 
in  the  heart  of  Africa. 

By  some  such  recipe  the  ground  was  pre- 
pared for  that  Camp  of  Instruction  at  Asholt 
which  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  thorn  in  the  side 
of  at  least  one  of  its  neighbors.  Then  a  due 
portion  of  this  sandy  oasis  in  a  wilderness  of 
beauty  was  mapped  out  into  lines,  with  military 
precision,  and  on  these  were  built  rows  of  little 
wooden  huts,  which  were  painted  a  neat  and 
useful  black. 

The  huts  for  married  men  and  officers  were 
of  varying  degrees  of  comfort  and  homeliness, 
but  those  for  single  men  were  like  toy-boxes  of 
wooden  soldiers ;  it  was  only  by  doing  it  very 
tidily  that  you  could  (so  to  speak)  put  your 
pretty  soldiers  away  at  night  when  you  had 
done  playing  with  them,  and  get  the  lid  to  shut 
down. 

But  then   tidiness    is   a  virtue    which  —  like 


24  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

patience — is  its  own  reward.  And  nineteen 
men  who  keep  themselves  clean  and  their  be- 
longings cleaner;  who  have  made  their  nine- 
teen beds  into  easy-chairs  before  most  people 
have  got  out  of  bed  at  all ;  whose  tin  pails  are 
kept  as  bright  as  average  teaspoons;  (to  the 
envy  of  housewives  and  the  shame  of  house- 
maids ! )  who  establish  a  common  and  a  holi- 
day side  to  the  reversible  top  of  their  one  long 
table,  and  scrupulously  scrub  both ;  who  have 
a  place  for  everything,  and  a  discipline  which 
obliges  everybody  to  put  everything  in  its  place  ; 
—  nineteen  men,  I  say,  with  such  habits,  find 
more  comfort  and  elbow-room  in  a  hut  than  an 
outsider  might  believe  possible,  and  hang  up  a 
photograph  or  two  into  the  bargain. 

But  it  may  be  at  once  conceded  to  the  credit 
of  the  camp,  that  those  who  lived  there  thought 
better  of  it  than  those  who  did  not,  and  that 
those  who  lived  there  longest  were  apt  to  like 
it  best  of  all. 

It  was,  however,  regarded  by  different  people 
from  very  opposite  points  of  view,  in  each  of 
which  was  some  truth. 

There  were  those  to  whom  the  place  and  the 
life  were  alike  hateful. 

They  said   that,  from  a  soldier's  standpoint, 


THE    STORY    OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  2$ 

the  life  was  one  of  exceptionally  hard  work, 
and  uncertain  stay,  with  no  small  proportion  of 
the  hardships  and  even  risks  of  active  service, 
and  none  of  the  more  glorious  chances  of  war. 

That  you  might  die  of  sunstroke  on  the 
march,  or  contract  rheumatism,  fever,  or  dysen- 
tery, under  canvas,  without  drawing  Indian  pay 
and  allowances ;  and  that  you  might  ruin  your 
uniform  as  rapidly  as  in  a  campaign,  and  never 
hope  to  pin  a  ribbon  over  its  inglorious  stains. 

That  the  military  society  was  too  large  to 
find  friends  quickly  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
that  as  to  your  neighbors  in  camp,  they  were 
sure  to  get  marching  orders  just  when  you  had 
learnt  to  like  them.  And  if  you  did  not  like 
them —  !  (But  for  that  matter,  quarrelsome 
neighbors  are  much  the  same  everywhere. 
And  a  boundary  road  between  two  estates 
will  furnish  as  pretty  a  feud  as  the  pump  of  a 
common  back  yard.) 

The  haters  of  the  camp  said  that  it  had 
every  characteristic  to  disqualify  it  for  a  home ; 
that  it  was  ugly  and  crowded  without  the  ap- 
pliances of  civilization  ;  that  it  was  neither  town 
nor  country,  and  liad  the  disadvantages  of  each 
without  the  merits  of  either. 

That  it  was  unshaded  and  unsheltered,  that 


26  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

the  lines  were  monotonous  and  yet  confusing, 
and  every  road  and  parade  ground  more  dusty 
than  another. 

That  the  huts  let  in  the  frost  in  winter  and 
the  heat  in  summer,  and  Avere  at  once  stuffy  and 
draughty. 

That  the  low  roofs  were  like  a  weight  upon 
your  head,  and  that  the  torture  was  invariably 
brought  to  a  climax  on  the  hottest  of  the  dog- 
days,  when  they  were  tarred  and  sanded  in  spite 
of  your  teeth ;  a  process  which  did  not  insure 
their  being  water-tight  or  snow-proof  when  the 
weather  changed. 

That  the  rooms  had  no  cupboards,  but  an 
unusual  number  of  doors,  through  which  no 
tall  man  could  pass  without  stooping. 

That  only  the  publicity  and  squalor  of  the 
back-premises  of  the  "pines"  —  their  drying 
clothes,  and  crumbling  mud  walls,  their  coal- 
boxes  and  slop-pails  —  could  exceed  the  de- 
pressing effects  of  the  gardens  in  front,  where 
such  plants  as  were  not  uprooted  by  the  winds 
perished  of  frost  or  drought,  and  where,  if  some 
gallant  creeper  had  stood  fast  and  covered  the 
nakedness  of  your  wooden  hovel,  the  Royal 
Engineers  would  arrive  one  morning,  with  as 
little  announcement  as  the  tar  and  sand  men, 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  2  7 

and  teat  down  the  growth  of  years  before  you 
had  finished  shaving,  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
painting your  outer  walls. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  those  who 
had  a  great  affection  for  Asholt,  and  affection 
never  lacks  arguments. 

Admitting  some  hardships  and  blunders,  the 
defenders  of  the  camp  fell  back  successfully 
upon  statistics  for  a  witness  to  the  general 
good  health. 

They  said  that  if  the  camp  was  windy  the 
breezes  were  exquisitely  bracing,  and  the  cli- 
mate of  that  particular  part  of  England  such  as 
would  qualify  it  for  a  health-resort  for  invalids, 
were  it  only  situated  in  a  comparatively  inac- 
cessible part  of  the  Pyrenees,  instead  of  being 
within  an  hoyr  or  two  of  London. 

That  this  fact  of  being  within  easy  reach  of 
town  made  the  camp  practically  at  the  head- 
quarters of  civilization  and  refinement,  whilst 
the  simple  and  sociable  ways  of  living,  neces- 
sitated by  hut-life  in  common,  emancipated  its 
select  society  from  rival  extravagance  and  cum- 
bersome formalities. 

That  the  camp  stood  on  the  borders  of  the 
two  counties  of  England  which  rank  highest  on 
the  books  of  estate  and  house  agents,  and  that 


28  THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

if  you  did  not  think  the  country  lovely  and  the 
neighborhood  agreeable  you  must  be  hard  to 
please. 

That,  as  regards  the  Royal  Engineers,  it  was 
one  of  your  privileges  to  be  hard  to  please, 
since  you  were  entitled  to  their  good  offices ; 
and  if,  after  all,  they  sometimes  failed  to  cure 
your  disordered  drains  and  smoky  chimneys, 
you,  at  any  rate,  did  not  pay  as  well  as  suffer, 
which  is  the  case  in  civil  life. 

That  low  doors  to  military  quarters  might  be 
regarded  as  a  practical  joke  on  the  part  of 
authorities,  who  demand  that  soldiers  shall  be 
both  tall  and  upright,  but  that  man,  whether 
military  or  not,  is  an  adaptable  animal  and  can 
get  used  to  anything ;  and  indeed  it  was  only 
those  officers  whose  thoughts  were  more  active 
than  their  instincts  who  invariably  crushed  their 
best  hats  before  starting  for  town. 

That  huts  (if  only  they  were  a  little  higher  !) 
had  a  great  many  advantages  over  small  houses, 
which  were  best  appreciated  by  those  who  had 
tried  drawing  lodging  allowance  and  living  in 
villas,  and  which  would  be  fully  known  if  ever 
the  lines  were  rebuilt  in  brick. 

That  on  moonlit  nights  the  airs  that  fanned 
the  silent  camp  were  as  dry  and  wholesome  as 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  29 

by  day ;  that  the  song  of  the  distant  nightin- 
gale could  be  heard  there ;  and  finally,  that 
from  end  to  end  of  this  dwelling-place  of  ten 
thousand  to  (on  occasion)  twenty  thousand 
men,  a  woman  might  pass  at  midnight  with 
greater  safety  than  in  the  country  lanes  of  a 
rural  village  or  a  police-protected  thoroughfare 
of  the  metropolis. 

But,  in  truth,  the  camp's  best  defence  in  the 
hearts  of  its  defenders  was  that  it  was  a  camp, 
—  military  life  in  epitome,  with  all  its  defects 
and  all  its  charm ;  not  the  least  of  which,  to 
some  whimsical  minds,  is,  that  it  represents,  as 
no  other  phase  of  society  represents,  the  human 
pilgrimage  in  brief. 

Here  be  sudden  partings,  but  frequent  re- 
unions ;  the  charities  and  courtesies  of  an  un- 
certain life  lived  largely  in  common ;  the  hos- 
pitality of  passing  hosts  to  guests  who  tarry 
but  a  day. 

Here,  surely,  should  be  the  home  of  the  sage 
as  well  as  the  soldier,  where  every  hut  might 
fitly  carry  the  ancient  motto,  "  Dwell  as  if  about 
to  depart,"  where  work  bears  the  nobler  name 
of  duty,  and  where  the  living,  hastening  on  his 
business  amid  "the  hurryings  of  this  life,"* 
*  Bunyan's  Pilgrims  Progress, 


30  THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE. 

must  pause  and  stand  to  salute  the  dead  as  he 
is  carried  by. 

Bare  and  dusty  are  the  parade  grounds,  but 
they  are  thick  with  memories.  Here  were 
blessed  the  colors  that  became  a  young  man's 
shroud  that  they  might  not  be  a  nation's  shame. 
Here  march  and  music  welcome  the  coming 
and  speed  the  parting  regiments.  On  this  pa- 
rade the  rising  sun  is  greeted  with  gun-fire  and 
trumpet  clarions  shriller  than  the  cock,  artel 
there  he  sets  to  a  like  salute  with  tuck  of  drum. 
Here  the  young  recruit  drills,  the  warrior  puts 
on  his  medal,  the  old  pensioner  steals  back  to 
watch  them,  and  the  soldiers'  children  play  — 
sometimes  at  fighting  or  flag-wagging,*  but 
oftener  at  funerals ! 

* "  Flag-wagging,"  a  name  among   soldiers'    children    for 
"signalling." 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  31 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Ut  migraturus  habita"  ("Dwell  as  if  about  to  depart"). 
—  Old  House  Motto. 

THE  barrack  master's  wife  was  standing  in 
the  porch  of  her  hut,  the  sides  of  which  were 
of  the  simplest  trellis-work  of  crossed  fir-poles, 
through  which  she  could  watch  the  proceedings 
of  the  gardener  without  baking  herself  in  the 
sun.  Suddenly  she  snatched  up  a  green-lined 
white  umbrella,  that  had  seen  service  in  India, 
and  ran  out. 

"O'Reilly!  what  is  that  baby  doing?  There! 
that  white-headed  child  crossing  the  parade 
with  a  basket  in  its  little  arms  !  It's  got  noth- 
ing on  its  head.  Please  go  and  take  it  to  its 
mother  before  it  gets  sunstroke." 

The  gardener  was  an  Irish  soldier  —  an  old 
soldier,  as  the  handkerchief  depending  from  his 
cap,  to  protect  the  nape  of  his  neck  from  the 
sun,  bore  witness.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and 
stepped  without  ceremony  over  the  garden  pal- 
ing to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  parade.  But  he 
stepped  back  again  at  once,  and  resumed  his 
place  in  the  garden. 


32  THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE. 

"He's  Corporal  Macdonald's  child,  madam. 
The  Blind  Baby,  they  call  him.  Not  a  bit  of 
harm  will  he  get.  They're  as  hard  as  nails,  the 
whole  lot  of  them.  If  I  was  to  take  him  in 
now,  he'd  be  out  before  my  back  was  turned. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  are  at  the  school,  and 
Blind  Baby's  just  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long, 
playing  at  funerals  all  the  time." 

"  Blind  !  Is  he  blind?  Poor  little  soul !  But 
he's  got  a  great  round  potato-basket  in  his  arms. 
Surely  they  don't  make  that  afflicted  infant 
fetch  and  carry  ?  " 

O'Reilly  laughed  so  heartily  that  he  scandal- 
ized his  own  sense  of  propriety. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  madam.  But  there's  no 
fear  that  Blind  Baby'll  fetch  and  carry.  Every 
man  in  the  lines  is  his  nurse." 

"  But  what's  he  doing  with  that  round  hamper 
as  big  as  himself  ?  " 

"  It's  just  a  make-believe  for  the  big  drum, 
madam.  The  'Dead  March'  is  his  whole  de- 
light. 'Twas  only  yesterday  I  said  to  his  father, 
'Corporal,'  I  says,  '  we'll  live  to  see  Blind  Baby 
a  band-master  yet,'  I  says  ;  '  it's  a  pure  pleasure 
to  see  him  beat  out  a  tune  with  his  closed  fist.'" 

"Will  I  go  and  borrow  a  barrow  now,  mad- 
am?" added  O'Reilly,  returning  to  his  duties. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  33 

He  was  always  willing  and  never  idle,  but  he 
liked  change  of  occupation. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  go  away.  We  sha'n't  want 
a  wheelbarrow  till  we've  finished  trenching  this 
border,  and  picking  out  the  stones.  Then  you 
can  take  them  away  and  fetch  the  new  soil." 

"  You're  at  a  deal  of  pains,  madam,  and  it's 
a  poor  patch  when  all's  done  to  it." 

"  I  can't  live  without  flowers,  O'Reilly,  and 
the  Colonel  says  I  may  do  what  I  like  with  this 
bare  strip." 

"Ah!  Don't  touch  the  dirty  stones  with 
your  fingers,  ma'am.  I'll  have  the  lot  picked 
in  no  time  at  all." 

"You  see,  O'Reilly,  you  can't  grow  flowers 
in  sand  unless  you  can  command  water,  and  the 
Colonel  tells  me  that  when  it's  hot  here  the  water 
supply  runs  short,  and  we  mayn't  water  the 
garden  from  the  pumps." 

O'Reilly  smiled  superior. 

"The  Colonel  will  get  what  water  he  wants, 
ma'am.  Never  fear  him  !  There's  ways  and 
means.  Look  at  the  gardens  of  the  Royal 
Engineers'  lines.  In  the  hottest  of  summer 
weather  they're  as  green  as  old  Ireland  ;  and  it's 
not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Royal  Engineers 
can  requisition  showers  from  the  skies  when 


34  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 

they  need  them,  more  than  the  rest  of  her  Maj- 
esty's forces." 

"  Perhaps  the  Royal  Engineers  do  what  I  mean 
to  do,  —  take  more  pains  than  usual,  and  put 
in  soil  that  will  retain  some  moisture.  One 
can't  make  poor  land  yield  anything  without 
pains,  O'Reilly,  and  this  is  like  the  dry  bed  of 
a  stream  —  all  sand  and  pebbles." 

"  That's  as  true  a  wrord  as  ever  ye  spoke, 
madam,  and  if  it  were  not  that  'twould  be  tak- 
ing a  liberty,  I'd  give  ye  some  advice  about 
gardening  in  camp.  It's  not  the  first  time  I'm 
quartered  in  Asholt,  and  I  know  the  ways 
of  it." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  advice.  You  know 
I  have  never  been  stationed  here  before." 

"  Tis  an  old  soldier's  advice,  madam." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  lady,  warmly. 

O'Reilly  was  kneeling  to  his  work.  He  now 
sat  back  on  his  heels,  and  not  without  a  certain 
dignity  that  bade  defiance  to  his  surroundings 
he  commenced  his  oration. 

"  Please  God  to  spare  you  and  the  Colonel, 
madam,  to  put  in  his  time  as  Barrack  Master 
at  this  station,  ye'll  see  many  a  regiment  come 
and  go,  and  be  making  themselves  at  home  all 
along.  And  anny  one  that  knows  this  place, 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  35 

and  the  nature  of  the  soil,  tear-rs  would  over- 
flow his  eyes  to  see  the  regiments  come  for 
drill,  and  betake  themselves  to  gardening. 
Maybe  the  boys  have  marched  in  footsore  and 
fasting,  in  the  hottest  of  weather,  to  cold  com- 
fort in  empty  quarters,  and  they'll  not  let  many 
hours  flit  over  their  heads  before  some  of  'em 
'11  get  possession  of  a  load  of  green  turf,  and  be 
laying  it  down  for  borders  around  their  huts. 
It's  the  young  ones  I'm  speaking  of;  and  there 
ye'll  see  them,  in  the  blazing  sun,  with  their 
shirts  open,  and  not  a  thing  on  their  heads, 
squaring  and  fitting  the  turfs  for  bare  life, 
watering  them  out  of  old  pie-dishes  and  stable- 
buckets  and  whatnot,  singing  and  whistling, 
and  fetching  and  carrying  between  the  pump 
and  their  quarters,  just  as  cheerful  as  so  many 
birds  building  their  nests  in  the  spring." 

"  A  very  pretty  picture,  O'Reilly.  Why  should 
it  bring  tears  to  your  eyes?  An  old  soldier  like 
you  must  know  that  one  would  never  have  a 
home  in  quarters  at  all  if  one  did  not  begin  to 
make  it  at  once." 

"  True  for  you,  madam.  Not  a  doubt  of  it. 
But  it  goes  to  your  heart  to  see  labor  thrown 
away ;  and  it's  not  once  in  a  hundred  times  that 
grass  planted  like  that  will  get  hold  of  a  soil  like 


36  THE   STORY    OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

this,  and  the  boys  themselves  at  drill  all  along, 
or  gone  out  under  canvas  in  Bottomless  Bog 
before  the  week's  over,  as  likely  as  not." 

"  That  would  be  unlucky.  But  one  must 
take  one's  luck  as  it  comes.  And  you've  not 
told  me,  now,  what  you  do  advise  for  camp 
gardens." 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  coming  to,  ma'am. 
See  the  old  soldier  !  What  does  he  do  ?  Turns 
the  bucket  upside  down  outside  his  hut,  and 
sits  on  it,  with  a  cap  on  his  head,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief down  his  back,  and  some  tin  tacks,  and 
a  ball  of  string — trust  a  soldier's  eye  to  get  the 
lines  straight  —  every  one  of  them  beginning 
on  the  ground  and  going  nearly  up  to  the  roof." 

"  For  creepers,  I  suppose?  What  does  the 
old  soldier  plant?  " 

"Beans,  madam  —  scarlet  runners.  These 
are  the  things  for  Asholt.  A  few  beans  are 
nothing  in  your  baggage.  They  like  a  warm 
place,  and  when  they're  on  the  sunny  side  of 
a  hut  they've  got  it,  and  no  mistake.  They're 
growing  while  you're  on  duty.  The  flowers 
are  the  right  soldier's  color ;  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  beans,  ye  may  put  your  hand 
out  of  the  window  and  gather  them,  and  no 
trouble  at  all." 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  37 

"  The  old  soldier  is  very  wise ;  but  I  think  I 
must  have  more  flowers  than  that.  So  I  plant, 
and  if  they  die  I  am  very  sorry ;  and  if  they 
live,  and  other  people  have  them,  I  try  to  be 
glad.  One  ought  to  learn  to  be  unselfish, 
O'Reilly,  and  think  of  one's  successors." 

"  And  that's  true,  madam ;  barring  that  I 
never  knew  any  one's  successor  to  have  the 
same  fancies  as  himself:  one  plants  trees  to 
give  shelter,  and  the  next  cuts  them  down  to 
let  in  the  air." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  only  way  is  to  be  pre- 
pared for  the  worst.  The  rose  we  planted 
yesterday  by  the  porch  is  a  great  favorite  of 
mine ;  but  the  Colonel  calls  it  '  Marching 
Orders.'  It  used  to  grow  over  my  window  in 
my  old  home,  and  I  have  planted  it  by  every 
home  I  have  had  since ;  but  the  Colonel  says 
whenever  it  settled  and  began  to  flower  the 
regiment  got  the  route." 

"The  Colonel  must  name  it  again,  madam," 
said  O'Reilly,  gallantly,  as  he  hitched  up  the 
knees  of  his  trousers,  and  returned  to  the 
border.  "  It  shall  be  '  Standing  Orders  '  now, 
if  soap  and  water  can  make  it  blossom,  and  I'm 
spared  to  attend  to  it  all  the  time.  Many  a 


38  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

hundred  roses  may  you  and  the  Colonel  pluck 
from  it,  and  never  one  with  a  thorn !  " 

"  Thank  you,  O'Reilly ;  thank  you  very 
much.  Soapy  water  is  very  good  for  roses,  I 
believe?  " 

"  It  is  so,  madam.  I  put  in  a  good  deal  of 
my  time  as  officer's  servant  after  I  was  in  the 
Connaught  Rangers,  and  the  captain  I  was  with 
one  time  was  as  fond  of  flowers  as  yourself. 
There  \vas  a  mighty  fine  rose-bush  by  his  quar- 
ters, and  every  morning  I  had  to  carry  out  his 
bath  to  it.  He  used  more  soap  than  most  gen- 
tlemen, and  when  he  sent  me  to  the  town  for 
it  —  'It's  not  for  myself,  O'Reilly,'  he'd  say, 
'  so  much  as  for  the  rose.  Bring  large  tablets,' 
he'd  say,  '  and  the  best  scented  ye  can  get. 
The  roses'll  be  the  sweeter  for  it.'  That  was 
his  way  of  joking,  and  never  a  smile  on  his 
face.  He  was  odd  in  many  of  his  ways,  was 
the  captain,  but  he  was  a  grand  soldier  entirely ; 
a  good  officer,  and  a  good  friend  to  his  men, 
and  to  the  wives  and  children  no  less.  The 
regiment  was  in  India  when  he  died  of  cholera, 
in  twenty-four  hours,  do  what  I  would.  '  Oh, 
the  cramp  in  my  legs,  O'Reilly !  '  he  says. 
'  God  bless  ye,  captain,'  says  I,  '  never  mind 
your  legs ;  I'd  manage  the  cramp,  sir,'  I  says, 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  39 

'if  I  could  but  keep  up  your  heart.'  — '  Ye'll  not 
do  that,  O'Reilly,'  he  says, '  for  all  your  good- 
ness ;  I  lost  it  too  long  ago.'  That  was  his 
way  of  joking,  and  never  a  smile  on  his  face. 
Twas  a  pestilential  hole  we  were  in,  and  that's 
the  truth ;  and  cost  her  Majesty  more  in  lives 
than  would  have  built  healthy  quarters,  and 
given  us  every  comfort ;  but  the  flowers  throve 
there  if  we  didn't,  and  the  captain's  grave  was 
filled  till  ye  couldn't  get  the  sight  of  him  for 
roses.  He  was  a  good  officer,  and  beloved  of 
his  men  ;  and  better  master  never  a  man  had  !  " 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  O'Reilly  drew  his 
sleeve  sharply  across  his  eyes,  and  then  bent 
again  to  his  work,  which  was  why  he  failed  to 
see  what  the  barrack  master's  wife  saw,  and  did 
not  for  some  moments  discover  that  she  was  no 
longer  in  the  garden.  The  matter  was  this :  — 

The  barrack  master's  quarters  were  close  to 
the  Iron  Church,  and  the  straight  road  that  ran 
past  both  was  crossed,  just  beyond  the  church, 
by  another  straight  road,  which  finally  led  out 
to  and  joined  a  country  highway.  From  this 
highway  an  open  carriage  and  pair  were  being 
driven  into  the  camp  as  a  soldier's  funeral  was 
marching  to  church.  The  band  frightened  the 
horses,  who  were  got  past  with  some  difficulty, 


4O  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

and  having  turned  the  sharp  corner,  were  com- 
ing rapidly  towards  the  barrack  master's  hut, 
when  Blind  Baby,  excited  by  the  band,  strayed 
from  his  parade  ground,  tumbled,  basket  and 
all,  into  the  ditch  that  divided  it  from  the  road, 
picked  up  himself  and  his  basket,  and  was 
sturdily  setting  forth  across  the  road  just  as  the 
frightened  horses  came  plunging  to  the  spot. 

The  barrack  master's  wife  was  not  very 
young,  and  not  very  slender.  Rapid  move- 
ments were  not  easy  to  her.  She  was  nervous 
also,  and  could  never  afterwards  remember  what 
she  did  with  herself  in  those  brief  moments  be- 
fore she  became  conscious  that  the  footman 
had  got  to  the  horses'  heads,  and  that  she  her- 
self was  almost  under  their  feet,  with  Blind 
Baby  in  her  arms.  Blind  Baby  himself  recalled 
her  to  consciousness  by  the  ungrateful  fashion 
in  which  he  pummelled  his  deliverer  with  his 
fists  and  howled  for  his  basket,  which  had 
rolled  under  the  carriage  to  add  to  the  confu- 
sion. Nor  was  he  to  be  pacified  till  O'Reilly 
took  him  from  her  arms. 

By  this  time  men  had  rushed  from  every  hut 
and  kitchen,  wash-place  and  shop,  and  were 
swarming  to  the  rescue  ;  and  through  the  whole 
disturbance,  like  minute-guns,  came  the  short 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  4! 

barks  of  a  black  puppy,  which  Leonard  had 
insisted  upon  taking  with  him  to  show  to  his 
aunt  despite  the  protestations  of  his  mother : 
for  it  was  Lady  Jane's  carriage,  and  this  was 
how  the  sisters  met. 

They    had    been    sitting  together    for    some 
time,  so  absorbed  by  the  strangeness  and  the 


pleasure  of  their  new  relations,  that  Leonard 
and  his  puppy  had  slipped  away  unobserved, 
when  Lady  Jane,  who  was  near  the  window, 
called  to  her  sister-in-law:  "Adelaide,  tell 


42  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

me,  my  dear,  is  this  Colonel  Jones?"  She 
spoke  with  some  trepidation.  It  is  so  easy  for 
those  unacquainted  with  uniforms  to  make 
strange  blunders.  Moreover,  the  barrack  mas- 
ter, though  soldierly  looking,  was  so,  despite  a 
very  unsoldierly  defect.  He  was  exceedingly 
stout,  and  as  he  approached  the  miniature  gar- 
den gate,  Lady  Jane  found  herself  gazing  with 
some  anxiety  to  see  if  he  could*  possibly  get 
through. 

But  O'Reilly  did  not  make  an  empty  boast 
when  he  said  that  a  soldier's  eye  was  true. 
The  Colonel  came  quite  neatly  through  the  toy 
entrance,  knocked  nothing  down  in  the  porch, 
bent  and  bared  his  head  with  one  gesture  as  he 
passed  under  the  drawing-room  doorway,  and 
bowing  again  to  Lady  Jane,  moved  straight  to 
the  side  of  his  wife. 

Something  in  the  action  —  a  mixture  of  dig- 
nity and  devotion,  with  just  a  touch  of  defiance 
—  went  to  Lady  Jane's  heart.  She  went  up 
to  him  and  held  out  both  her  hands :  "  Please 
shake  hands  with  me,  Colonel  Jones.  I  am  so 
very  happy  to  have  found  a  sister !  "  In  a 
moment  more  she  turned  round,  saying:  "  I 
must  show  you  your  nephew.  Leonard  !  "  But 
Leonard  was  not  there. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  43 

"  I  fancy  I  have  seen  him  already,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "  If  he  is  a  very  beautiful  boy,  very 
beautifully  dressed  in  velvet,  he's  with  O'Reilly, 
watching  the  funeral." 

Lady  Jane  looked  horrified,  and  Mrs.  Jones 
looked  much  relieved. 

"  He's  quite  safe  if  he's  with  O'Reilly.  But 
give  me  my  sunshade,  Henry,  please ;  I  dare 
say  Lady  Jane  would  like  to  see  the  funeral 
too." 

It  is  an  Asholt  amenity  to  take  care  that  you 
miss  no  opportunity  of  seeing  a  funeral.  It 
would  not  have  occurred  to  Lady  Jane  to  wish 
to  go,  but  as  her  only  child  had  gone  she  went 
willingly  to  look  for  him.  As  they  turned  the 
corner  of  the  hut  they  came  straight  upon  it, 
and  at  that  moment  the  "  Dead  March  "  broke 
forth  afresh. 

The  drum  beat  out  those  familiar  notes 
which  strike  upon  the  heart  rather  than  the  ear, 
the  brass  screamed,  the  ground  trembled  to  the 
tramp  of  feet  and  the  lumbering  of  the  gun 
carriage,  and  Lady  Jane's  eyes  filled  suddenly 
with  tears  at  the  sight  of  the  dead  man's  accou- 
trements lying  on  the  Union  Jack  that  serves  a 
soldier  for  a  pall.  As  she  dried  them  she  saw 
Leonard. 


44  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Drawn  up  in  accurate  line  with  the  edge  of 
the  road,  O'Reilly  was  standing  to  salute ;  and 
as  near  to  the  Irish  private  as  he  could  squeeze 
himself  stood  the  boy,  his  whole  body  stretched 
to  the  closest  possible  imitation  of  his  new  and 
deeply  revered  friend,  his  left  arm  glued  to  his 
side,  and  the  back  of  his  little  right  hand  laid 
against  his  brow,  gazing  at  the  pathetic  pageant 
as  it  passed  him  with  devouring  eyes.  And 
behind  them  stood  Blind  Baby,  beating  upon 
his  basket. 

For  the  basket  had  been  recovered,  and  Blind 
Baby's  equanimity  also ;  and  he  wandered  up 
and  down  the  parade  again  in  the  sun,  long  after 
the  soldier's  funeral  had  wailed  its  way  to  the 
graveyard,  over  the  heather-covered  hill. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  45 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  My  mind  is  in  the  anomalous  condition  of  hating  war,  and 
loving  its  discipline,  which  has  been  an  incalculable  contri- 
bution to  the  sentiment  of  duty the  devotion  of  the 

common  soldier  to  his  leader  (the  sign  for  him  of  hard  duty;, 
is  the  type  of  all  higher  devotedness,  and  is  full  of  promise  to 
other  and  better  generations."  —  George  Eliot. 

"  YOUR  sister  is  as  nice  as  nice  can  be, 
Rupert ;  and  I  like  the  barrack  master  very  much 
too.  He  is  stout !  But  he  is  very  active  and 
upright,  and  his  manners  to  his  wife  are  wonder- 
fully pretty.  Do  you  know,  there  is  something 
to  me  most  touching  in  the  way  these  two  have 
knocked  about  the  world  together,  and  seem  so 
happy  with  so  little.  Cottagers  could  hardly 
live  more  simply,  and  yet  their  ideas,  or  at  any 
rate  their  experiences,  seem  so  much  larger 
thaa  one's  own." 

"  My  dear  Jane !  if  you've  taken  them  up 
from  the  romantic  point  of  view,  all  is,  indeed, 
accomplished.  I  know  the  wealth  of  your  im- 
agination, and  the  riches  of  its  charity.  If,  in 
such  a  mood,  you  will  admit  that  Jones  is  stout, 
he  must  be  fat  indeed  !  Never  again  upbraid 
me  with  the  price  that  I  paid  for  that  Chip- 


46  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE, 

pendale  arm-chair.  It  will  hold  the  barrack 
master." 

"  Rupert !  —  I  cannot  help  saying  it  —  it 
ought  to  have  held  him  long  ago.  It  makes 
me  miserable  to  think  that  they  have  never  been 
under  our  roof." 

"Jane!  Be  miserable  if  you  must;  but,  at 
least,  be  accurate.  The  barrack  master  was  in 
India  when  I  bought  that  paragon  of  all  Chips, 
and  he  has  only  come  home  this  year.  Nay,  my 
dear  !  Don't  be  vexed  !  I  give  you  my  word, 
I'm  a  good  deal  more  ashamed  than  I  like  to 
own  to  think  how  Adelaide  has  been  treated 
by  the  family  —  with  me  at  its  head.  Did  you 
make  my  apologies  to-day,  and  tell  her  that  I 
shall  ride  out  to-morrow  and  pay  my  respects 
to  her  and  Jones?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  told  her  you  were  obliged  to 
go  to  town,  and  I  would  not  delay  to  call  and 
ask  if  I  could  be  of  use  to  them.  I  begged 
them  to  come  here  till  their  quarters  are  quite 
finished ;  but  they  won't.  They  say  they  are 
settled.  I  could  not  say  much,  because  we 
ought  to  have  asked  them  sooner.  He  is 
rather  on  his  dignity  with  us,  I  think,  and  no 
wonder." 

"  He's    disgustingly   on   his   dignity !     They 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  47 

both  are.  Because  the  family  resented  the 
match  at  first,  they  have  refused  every  kind  of 
help  that  one  would  have  been  glad  to  give 
him  as  Adelaide's  husband,  if  only  to  secure 
their  being  in  a  decent  position.  Neither  inter- 
est nor  money  would  he  accept,  and  Adelaide 
has  followed  his  lead.  She  has  very  little  of 
her  own,  unfortunately ;  and  she  knows  how 
my  father  left  things  as  well  as  I  do,  and  never 
would  accept  a  farthing  more  than,  her  bare 
rights.  I  tried  some  dodges,  through  Quills; 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  The  vexation  is  that  he 
has  taken  this  post  of  barrack  master  as  a  sort 
of  pension,  which  need  never  have  been.  I 
suppose  they  have  to  make  that  son  an  allow- 
ance. It's  not  likely  he  lives  on  his  pay.  I 
can't  conceive  how  they  scrub  along." 

And  as  the  Master  of  the  House  threw  him- 
self into  the  paragon  of  all  Chips,  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  hair,  the  length  and  disorder 
of  which  would  have  made  the  barrack  master 
feel  positively  ill,  with  a  gesture  of  truly  dra- 
matic despair. 

"  Your  sister  has  made  her  room  look  won- 
derfully pretty.  One  would  never  imagine 
those  huts  could  look  as  nice  as  they  do  inside. 
But  it's  like  playing  with  a  doll's  house.  One 


48  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

feels  inclined  to  examine  everything,  and  to  be 
quite  pleased  that  the  windows  have  glass  in 
them  and  will  really  open  and  shut." 

The  Master  of  the  House  raised  his  eyebrows 
funnily. 

"  You  did  take  rose-colored  spectacles  with 
you  to  the  camp  !  " 

Lady  Jane  laughed. 

"  I  did  not  see  the  camp  itself  through  them. 
What  an  incomparably  dreary  place  it  is  !  It 
makes  me  think  of  little  woodcuts  in  missionary 
reports  —  '  Sketch  of  a  Native  Settlement '  — 
rows  of  little  black  huts  that  look,  at  a  distance, 
as  if  one  must  creep  into  them  on  all-fours ; 
nobody  about,  and  an  iron  church  on  the  hill." 

"  Most  accurately  described  !  And  you  won- 
der that  I  regret  that  a  native  settlement  should 
have  been  removed  from  the  enchanting  distance 
of  missionary  reports  to  become  my  permanent 
neighbor?  " 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  the  effect  it  produces 
on  me  is  to  make  me  feel  quite  ashamed  of  the 
peace  and  pleasure  of  this  dear  old  place,  the 
shade  and  greenery  outside,  the  space  above 
my  head,  and  the  lovely  things  before  my  eyes 
inside  (for  you  know,  Rupert,  how  I  appreciate 
your  decorative  tastes,  though  I  have  so  few 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  49 

myself.  I  only  scolded  about  the  Chip  because 
I  think  you  might  have  got  him  for  less)  — 
when  so  many  men  bred  to  similar  comforts, 
and  who  have  served  their  country  so  well,  with 
wives  I  dare  say  quite  as  delicate  as  I  am, 
have  to  be  cooped  up  in  those  ugly  little  ken- 
nels in  that  dreary  place  —  " 

"  What  an  uncomfortable  thing  a  Scotch 
conscience  is ! "  interrupted  the  Master  of  the 
House.  "  By-the-by,  those  religious  instincts, 
which  are  also  characteristic  of  your  race,  must 
have  found  one  redeeming  feature  in  the  camp, 
the  '  iron  church  on  the  hill ' ;  especially  as  I 
imagine  that  it  is  puritanically  ugly !  " 

"  There  was  a  funeral  going  into  it  as  we 
drove  into  camp,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
horses  were  very  much  frightened." 

"Richards  fidgets  those  horses;  they're  quiet 
enough  with  me." 

"  They  did  not  like  the  military  band." 

"  They  must  get  used  to  the  band  and  to 
other  military  nuisances.  It  is  written  in  the 
stars, 'as  I  too  clearly  foresee,  that  we  shall  be 
driving  in  and  out  of  that  camp  three  days  a 
week.  I  can't  go  to  my  club  without  meeting 
men  I  was  at  school  with  who  are  stationed  at 
Asholt,  and  expect  me  to  look  them  up.  As 


50  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

to  the  women,  I  met  a  man  yesterday  who  is 
living  in  a  hut,  and  expects  a  dowager  countess 
and  her  two  daughters  for  the  ball.  He  has 
given  up  his  dressing-room  to  the  dowager, 
and  put  two  barrack  beds  into  the  coal-hole  for 
the  young  ladies,  he  says.  It's  an  insanity !  " 

"  Adelaide  told  me  about  the  ball.  The 
camp  seems  very  gay  just  now.  They  have  had 
theatricals ;  and  there  is  to  be  a  grand  field 
day  this  week." 

"  So  our  visitors  have  already  informed  me. 
They  expect  to  go.  Louisa  Mainvvaring  is  look- 
ing handsomer  than  ever,  and  I  have  always 
regarded  her  as  a  girl  with  a  mind.  I  took  her 
to  see  the  peep  I  have  cut  opposite  to  the  island, 
and  I  could  not  imagine  why  those  fine  eyes  of 
hers  looked  so  blank.  Presently  she  said, '  I 
suppose  you  can  see  the  camp  from  the  little 
pine-wood  ?  '  And  to  the  little  pine-wood  we 
had  to  go.  Both  the  girls  have  got  stiff  necks  . 
with  craning  out  of  the  carriage  window  to 
catch  sight  of  the  white  tents  among  the 
heather  as  they  came  along  in  the  train." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  take  them  to  the  field 
day;  but  I  am  very  nervous  about  those  horses, 
Rupert." 

"  The  horses  will  be  taken  out  before  any 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  51 

firing  begins.  As  to  bands,  the  poor  creatures 
must  learn,  like  their  master,  to  endure  the 
brazen  liveliness  of  military  music.  It's  no 
fault  of  mine  that  our  nerves  are  scarified  by 
any  sounds  less  soothing  than  the  crooning  of 
the  wood-pigeons  among  the  pines  !  " 

No  one  looked  forward  to  the  big  field  day 
with  keener  interest  than  Leonard  ;  and  only  a 
few  privileged  persons  knew  more  about  the 
arrangements  for  the  day  than  be  had  con- 
trived to  learn. 

O'Reilly  was  sent  over  with  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Jones  to  decline  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  Lady 
Jane's  carriage  for  the  occasion.  She  was  not 
very  well.  Leonard  waylaid  the  messenger, 
(whom  he  hardly  recognized  as  a  tidy  one!) 
and  O'Reilly  gladly  imparted  all  that  he  knew 
about  the  field  day :  and  this  was  a  good  deal. 
He  had  it  from  a  friend  —  a  corporal  in  the 
headquarters  office. 

As  a  rule,  Leonard  only  enjoyed  a  limited 
popularity  with  his  mother's  visitors.  He  was 
very  pretty  and  very  amusing,  and  had  better 
qualities  even  than  these ;  but  he  was  restless 
and  troublesome.  On  this  occasion,  however, 
the  young  ladies  suffered  him  to  trample  their 
dresses  and  interrupt  their  conversation  without 


52  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

remonstrance.  He  knew  more  about  the  field 
day  than  any  one  in  the  house,  and,  stand- 
ing among  their  pretty  furbelows  and  fancy- 
work  in  stiff  military  attitudes,  he  imparted  his 
news  with  an  unsuccessful  imitation  of  an  Irish 
accent. 

"  O'Reilly  says  the  march  past  '11  be  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  Sandy  Slopes." 

"  Louisa,  is  that  Major  O'Reilly  of  the  Rifles  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  Is  your  friend  O'Reilly 
in  the  Rifles,  Leonard  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  he's  an  owld  soldier 
—  he  told  me  so." 

"  Old,  Leonard  ;  not  owld.  You  mustn't  talk 
like  that." 

"  I  shall  if  I  like,     fie  does,  and  I  mean  to." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did,  Louisa.  He's  always 
joking." 

"  No  he  isn't.  He  didn't  joke  when  the  fu- 
neral went  past.  He  looked  quite  grave,  as  if 
he  was  saying  his  prayers,  and  stood  so." 

"  How  touching  !  " 

"  How  like  him  !  " 

"  How  graceful  and  tender-hearted  Irishmen 
are !  " 

"I  stood  so,  too.     I  mean  to  do  as  like  him 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  53 

as  ever  I  can.  I  do  love  him  so  very,  very 
much ! " 

"  Dear  boy  !  " 

"  You  good,  affectionate  little  soul !  " 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Leonard  dear." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I'm  too  old  for  kissing. 
He's  going  to  march  past,  and  he's  going  to 
look  out  for  me  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  and 
I'm  going  to  look  out  for  him." 

"  Do,  Leonard ;  and  mind  you  tell  us  when 
you  see  him  coming." 

"  I  can't  promise.  I  might  forget.  But  per- 
haps you  can  know  him  by  the  good-conduct 
stripe  on  his  arm.  He  used  to  have  two ;  but 
he  lost  one  all  along  of  St.  Patrick's  day." 

"  That  can't  be  your  partner,  Louisa  !  " 

"  Officers  never  have  good-conduct  stripes." 

"  Leonard,  you  ought  not  to  talk  to  common 
soldiers.  You've  got  a  regular  Irish  brogue, 
and  you're  learning  all  sorts  of  ugly  words. 
You'll  grow  up  quite  a  vulgar  little  boy,  if  you 
don't  take  care." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  care.  I  like  being 
Irish,  and  I  shall  be  a  vulgar  little  boy  too,  if  I 
choose.  But  when  I  do  grow  up,  I  am  going 
to  grow  into  an  owld,  owld,  owld  soldier !  " 

Leonard  made  this  statement  of  his  intentions 


54  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

in  his  clearest  manner.  After  which,  having 
learned  that  the  favor  of  the  fair  is  fickleness, 
he  left  the  ladies,  and  went  to  look  for  his  black 
puppy. 

The  Master  of  the  House,  in  arranging  for  his 
visitors  to  go  to  the  field  day,  had  said  that 
Leonard  was  not  to  -be  of  the  party.  He  had 
no  wish  to  encourage  the  child's  fancy  for  sol- 
diers ;  and  as  Leonard  was  invariably  restless 
out  driving,  and  had  a  trick  of  kicking  people's 
shins  in  his  changes  of  mood  and  position,  he 
was  a  most  uncomfortable  element  in  a  carriage 
full  of  ladies.  But  it  is  needles*  to  say  that 
he  stoutly  resisted  his  father's  decree ;  and  the 
child's  disappointment  was  so  bitter,  and  he 
howled  and  wept  himself  into  such  a  deplorable 
condition,  that  the  young  ladies  sacrificed  their 
own  comfort  and  the  crispness  of  their  new 
dresses  to  his  grief,  and  petitioned  the  Master 
of  the  House  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  go. 

The  Master  of  the  House  gave  in.  He  was 
accustomed  to  yield  where  Leonard  was  con- 
cerned. But  the  concession  proved  only  a  pre- 
lude to  another  struggle.  Leonard  wanted  the 
black  puppy  to  go  too. 

On  this  point  the  young  ladies  presented  no 
petition.  Leonard's  boots  they  had  resolved  to 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  55 

endure,  but  not  the  dog's  paws.  Lady  Jane, 
too,  protested  against  the  puppy,  and  the  matter 
seemed  settled ;  but  at  the  last  moment,  when 
all  but  Leonard  were  in  the  carriage,  and  the 
horses  chafing  to  be  off,  the  child  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  stood  on  the  entrance-steps  with 
his  puppy  in  his  arms,  and  announced,  in  digni- 
fied sorrow,  "  I  really  cannot  go  if  my  Sweep 
has  to  be  left  behind." 

With  one  consent  the  grown-up  people  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

Even  the  intoxicating  delight  that  color 
gives  can  hardly  exceed  the  satisfying  pleasure 
in  which  beautiful  proportions  steep  the  sense 
of  sight;  and  one  is  often  at  fault  to  find  the 
law  that  has  been  so  exquisitely  fulfilled,  when 
the  eye  has  no  doubt  of  its  own  satisfaction. 

The  shallow  stone  steps,  on  the  top  of  which 
Leonard  stood,  and  the  old  doorway  that 
framed  him,  had  this  mysterious  grace,  and, 
truth  to  say,  the  boy's  beauty  was  a  jewel  not 
unworthy  of  its  setting. 

A  holiday  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  with  collar 
and  ruffles  of  old  lace,  became  him  very  quaintly  ; 
and  as  he  laid  a  cheek  like  a  rose-leaf  against 
the  sooty  head  of  his  pet,  and  they  both  gazed 
piteously  at  the  carriage,  even  Lady  Jane's 


56  THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

conscience  was  stifled  by  motherly  pride.  He 
was  her  only  child,  but  as  he  had  said  of  the 
orderly,  "a  very  splendid  sort  of  one." 

The  Master  of  the  House  stamped  his  foot 
with  an  impatience  that  was  partly  real  and 
partly,  perhaps,  affected. 

"  Well,  get  in  somehow,  if  you  mean  to.  The 
horses  can't  wait  all  day  for  you." 

No  ruby-throated  humming  bird  could  have 
darted  more  swiftly  from  one  point  to  another 
than  Leonard  from  the  old  gray  steps  into  the 
carriage.  Little  boys  can  be  very  careful  when 
they  choose,  and  he  trod  on  no  toes  and  crum- 
pled no  finery  in  his  flitting. 

To  those  who  know  dogs,  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  the  puppy  showed  an  even  superior 
discretion.  It  bore  throttling  without  a  struggle. 
Instinctively  conscious  of  the  alternative  of  be- 
ing shut  up  in  a  stable  for  the  day,  and  left 
there  to  bark  its  heart  out,  it  shrank  patiently 
into  Leonard's  grasp,  and  betrayed  no  sign  of 
life  except  in  the  strained  and  pleading  anxiety 
which  a  puppy's  eyes  so  often  wear. 

"  Your  dog  is  a  very  good  dog,  Leonard,  I 
must  say,"  said  Louisa  Mainwaring;  "but  he's 
very  ugly.  I  never  saw  such  legs  !  " 

Leonard  tucked  the  lank  black  legs  under  his 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  57 

velvet  and  ruffles.  "Oh,  he's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  He'll  be  very  handsome  soon.  It's  his  ugly 
month." 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  insist  on  our  bringing 
Uncle  Rupert  and  his  dog  to  complete  the 
party,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House. 

The  notion  tickled  Leonard,  and  he  laughed 
so  heartily  that  the  puppy's  legs  got  loose,  and 
required  to  be  tucked  in  afresh.  Then  both 
remained  quiet  for  several  seconds,  during 
which  the  puppy  looked  as  anxious  as  ever ; 
but  Leonard's  face  wore  a  smile  of  dreamy 
content  that  doubled  its  loveliness. 

But  as  the  carriage  passed  the  windows  of 
the  library  a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  and 
dispersed  his  repose. 

Gripping  his  puppy  firmly  under  his  arm,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  —  regardless  of  other  people's 
—  and,  waving  his  cap  and  feather  above  his 
head,  he  cried  aloud,  "  Good  by,  Uncle  Rupert ! 
Can  you  hear  me?  Uncle  Rupert,  I  say!  I 
am  —  l&tus  —  sorte  —  me  a  !  " 


All  the  camp  was  astir. 

Men  and  bugles   awoke  with   the   dawn  and 
the  birds,  and  now  the  women  and  children  of 


58  THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

all  ranks  were  on  the  alert.  (Nowhere  does  so 
large  and  enthusiastic  a  crowd  collect  "  to  see 
the  pretty  soldiers  go  by"  as  in  those  places 
where  pretty  soldiers  live.) 

Soon  after  gun-fire  O'Reilly  made  his  way 
from  his  own  quarters  to  those  of  the  barrack 
master,  opened  the  back  door  by  some  process 
best  known  to  himself,  and  had  been  busy 
for  half  an  hour  in  the  drawing-room  be- 
fore his  proceedings  woke  the  Colonel.  They 
had  been  as  noiseless  as  possible ;  but  the 
Colonel's  dressing-room  opened  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, his  bedroom  opened  into  that,  and 
all  the  doors  and  windows  were  open  to  court 
the  air. 

"Who's  there?"  said  the  Colonel  from  his 
pillow. 

"'Tis  O'Reilly,  sir.  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir; 
but  I  heard  that  the  mistress  was  not  well. 
She'll  be  apt  to  want  the  reclining-chair,  sir ; 
and  'twas  damaged  in  the  unpacking.  I  got 
the  screws  last  night,  but  I  was  busy  soldiering* 
till  too  late ;  so  I  come  in  this  morning,  for 
Smith's  no  good  at  a  job  of  the  kind  at  all. 
He's  a  butcher  to  his  trade."- 

*  "  Soldiering "  —  a  barrack  term  for  the  furbishing  up  of 
accoutrements,  etc. 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  59 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  much  obliged  to  you  for 
tninking  of  it,  O'Reilly." 

"  'Tis  an  honor  to  oblige  her,  sir.  I  done  it 
sound  and  secure.  'Tis  as  safe  as  a  rock ;  but 
I'd  like  to  nail  a  bit  of  canvas  on  from  the  porch 
to  the  other  side  of  the  hut,  for  shelter,  in  case 
she'd  be  sitting  out  to  taste  the  air  and  see.  the 
troops  go  by.  'Twill  not  take  me  five  minutes, 
if  the  hammering  wouldn't  be  too  much  for  the 
mistress.  'Tis  a  hot  day,  sir,  for  certain,  till  the 
guns  bring  the  rain  down." 

"  Put  it  up,  if  you've  time." 

"  I  will,  sir.  I  left  your  sword  and  gloves  on 
the  kitchen-table,  sir ;  and  I  told  Smith  to 
water  the  rose  before  the  sun's  on  to  it." 

With  which  O'Reilly  adjusted  the  cushions  of 
the  invalid  chair,  and  having  nailed  up  the  bit 
of  canvas  outside,  so  as  to  form  an  impromptu 
veranda,  he  ran  back  to  his  quarters  to  put 
himself  into  marching  order  for  the  field  day. 

The  field  day  broke  into  smiles  of  sunshine 
too  early  to  be  lasting.  By  breakfast-time  the 
rain  came  down  without  waiting  for  the  guns ; 
but  those  most  concerned  took  the  changes  of 
weather  cheerfully,  as  soldiers  should.  Rain 
damages  uniforms,  but  it  lays  dust;  and  the 
dust  of  the  Sandy  Slopes  was  dust  indeed  ! 


60  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

After  a  pelting  shower  the  sun  broke  forth 
again,  and  from  that  time  onwards  the  weather 
was  "  Queen's  weather,"  and  Asholt  was  at  its 
best.  The  sandy  camp  lay  girdled  by  a  zone 
of  the  verdure  of  early  summer,  which  passed 
by  miles  of  distance,  through  exquisite  grada- 
tions of  many  blues,  to  meet  the  soft  threaten- 
ings  of  the  changeable  sky;  those  lowering 
and  yet  tender  rain-clouds  which  hover  over  the 
British  Isles,  guardian  spirits  of  that  scantily 
recognized  blessing  —  a  temperate  climate ; 
naiads  of  the  waters  over  the  earth,  whose 
caprices  betwixt  storm  and  sunshine  fling  such 
beauty  upon  a  landscape  as  has  no  parallel 
except  in  the  common  simile  of  a  fair  face 
quivering  between  tears  and  smiles. 

Smiles  were  in  the  ascendant  as  the  regiments 
began  to  leave  their  parade  grounds,  and  the 
surface  of  the  camp  (usually  quiet,  even  to  dul- 
ness)  sparkled  with  movement.  Along  every 
principal  road  the  color  and  glitter  of  marching 
troops  rippled  like  streams,  and  as  the  band  of 
one  regiment  died  away  another  broke  upon 
the  excited  ear. 

At  the  outlets  of  the  camp  eager  crowds 
waited  patiently  in  the  dusty  hedges  to  greet 
favorite  regiments,  or  watch  for  personal  friends 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT    LIFE.  6 1 

amongst  the  troops ;  and  on  the  ways  to  the 
Sandy  Slopes  every  kind  of  vehicle,  from  a 
drag  to  a  donkey-cart,  and  every  variety  of 
pedestrian,  from  an  energetic  tourist  carrying  a 
field-glass  to  a  more  admirably  energetic  mother 
carrying  a  baby,  disputed  the  highway  with 
cavalry  in  brazen  breastplates,  and  horse- 
artillery  whose  gallant  show  was  drowned  in 
its  own  dust. 

Lady  Jane's  visitors  had  expressed  themselves 
as  anxious  not  to  miss  anything,  and  troops 
were  still  pouring  out  of  the  camp  when  the 
Master  of  the  House  brought  his  skittish  horses 
to  where  a  "  block  "  had  just  occurred  at  the 
turn  to  the  Sandy  Slopes. 

What  the  shins  and  toes  of  the  visitors  en- 
dured whilst  that  knot  of  troops  of  all  arms  dis- 
entangled itself  and  streamed  away  in  gay  and 
glittering  lines,  could  only  have  been  concealed 
by  the  supreme  powers  of  endurance  latent  in 
the  weaker  sex  ;  for  with  the  sight  of  every  fresh 
regiment  Leonard  changed  his  plans  for  his  own 
future  career,  and  with  every  change  he  forgot 
a  fresh  promise  to  keep  quiet,  and  took  by  storm 
that  corner  of  the  carriage  which  for  the  moment 
offered  the  best  point  of  view. 

Suddenly,  through  the  noise  and  dust,  and 


62  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

above  the  dying  away  of  conflicting  bands  into 
the  distance,  there  came  another  sound  —  a 
sound  unlike  any  other — the  skirling  of  the 
pipes ;  and  Lady  Jane  sprang  up  and  put  her 
arms  about  her  son,  and  bade  him  watch  for 
the  Highlanders,  and  if  Cousin  Alan  looked  up 
as  he  went  past  to  cry  "Hurrah  for  Bonnie 
Scotland !  " 

For  this  sound  and  this  sight  —  the  bagpipes 
and  the  Highlanders — a  sandy-faced  Scotch 
lad  on  the  tramp  to  Southampton  had  waited  for 
an  hour  past,  frowning  and  freckling  his  face  in 
the  sun,  and  exasperating  a  naturally  dour  tem- 
per by  reflecting  on  the  probable  pride  and 
heartlessness  of  folk  who  wore  such  soft  com- 
plexions and  pretty  clothes  as  the  ladies  and 
the  little  boy  in  the  carriage  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road. 

But  when  the  skirling  of  the  pipes  cleft  the 
air  his  cold  eyes  softened  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Leonard's  face,  and  the  echo  that  he  made  to 
Leonard's  cheer  was  caught  up  by  the  good- 
humored  crowd,  who  gave  the  Scotch  regiment 
a  willing  ovation  as  it  swung  proudly  by.  After 
which  the  carriage  moved  on,  and  for  a  time 
Leonard  sat  very  still.  He  was  thinking  of 
Cousin  Alan  and  his  comrades ;  of  the  tossing 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  63 

p.-imes  that  shade  their  fierce  eyes ;  of  the 
sv.ing  of  kilt  and  sporran  with  their  unfettered 
limbs ;  of  the  rhythmic  tread  of  their  white  feet 
and  the  fluttering  ribbons  on  the  bagpipes ; 
and  of  Alan's  handsome  face  looking  out  of  his 
most  becoming  bravery. 

The  result  of  his  meditations  Leonard  an- 
nounced with  his  usual  lucidity:  — 

"  I  am  Scotch,  not  Irish,  though  O'Reilly  is 
the  nicest  man  I  ever  knew.  But  I  must  tell 
him  that  I  really  cannot  grow  up  into  an  owld 
soldier,  because  I  mean  to  be  a  young  High- 
land officer,  and  look  at  ladies  with  my  eyes 
like  this — and  carry  my  sword  so!" 


64  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Oh  that  a  man  might  know  the  end  of  this  day's  business 
ere  it  comes !  "  —  Julius  Ccesar. 

YEARS  of  living  amongst  soldiers  had  in- 
creased, rather  than  diminished,  Mrs.  Jones's 
relish  for  the  sights  and  sounds  of  military  life. 

The  charm  of  novelty  is  proverbially  great, 
but  it  is  not  so  powerful  as  that  peculiar  spell 
which  drew  the  retired  tallow-chandler  back  to 
"shop"  on  melting-days,  and  which  guided  the 
choice  of  the  sexton  of  a  cemetery  who  only 
took  one  holiday  trip  in  the  course  of  seven 
years,  and  then  he  went  to  a  cemetery  at  some 
distance  to  see  how  they  managed  matters  there. 
And,  indeed,  poor  humanity  may  be  very  thank- 
ful for  the  infatuation,  since  it  goes  far  to  make 
life  pleasant  in  the  living  to  plain  folk  who  do 
not  make  a  point  of  being  discontented. 

In  obedience  to  this  law  of  nature,  the  bar- 
rack master's  wife  did  exactly  what  O'Reilly  had 
expected  her  to  do.  As  she  could  not  drive  to 
the  field  day,  she  strolled  out  to  see  the  troops 
go  by.  Then  the  vigor  derived  from  breakfast 
and  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air  began 


THE    STORY    OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 


to  fail,  the  day  grew  hotter,  the  camp  looked 
dreary  and  deserted,  and,  either  from  physical 
weakness  or  from  some  untold  cause,  a  name- 
less anxiety,  a  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air,  be- 
gan to  oppress  her. 

Wandering  out  again  to  try  and  shake  it  off, 
it  was  almost  a  relief,  like  the  solving  of  a 
riddle,  to  find  Blind  Baby  sitting  upon  his  big 
drum,  too  low-spirited  to  play  the  Dead  March, 
and  crying  because  all  the  bands  had  "  gone 
right  away."  Mrs.  Jones 
made  friends  with  him, 
and  led  him  off  to  her  hut 
for  consolation,  and  he 
was  soon  as  happy  as  ever, 
standing  by  the  piano  and 
beating  upon  his  basket 
in  time  to  the  tunes  she 
played  for  him.  But  the 
day  and  the  hut  grew 
hotter,  and  her  back  ached, 
and  the  nameless  anxiety 
re-asserted  itself,  and  was 
not  relieved  by  Blind  Baby's  preference  for  the 
Dead  March  over  every  other  tune  with  which 
she  tried  to  beguile  him. 

And    when  he   had   gone   back  to   his  own 


66  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

parade,  with  a  large  piece  of  cake  and  many 
assurances  that  the  bands  would  undoubtedly 
return,  and  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  hut  be- 
came like  an  oven  (in  the  absence  of  any 
appliances  to  mitigate  the  heat),  the  barrack 
master's  wife  came  to  the  hasty  conclusion  that 
Asholt  was  hotter  than  India,  whatever  ther- 
mometers might  say;  and,  too  weary  to  seek 
for  breezes  outside,  or  to  find  a  restful  angle  of 
the  reclining  chair  inside,  she  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  abandoned  herself  to  the  most 
universal  remedy  for  most  ills  —  patience.  And 
patience  was  its  own  reward,  for  she  fell  asleep. 

Her  last  thoughts  as  she  dozed  off  were  of 
her  husband  and  her  son,  wishing  that  they 
were  safe  home  again,  that  she  might  assure 
herself  that  it  was  not  on  their  account  that 
there  was  trouble  in  the  air.  Then  she  dreamed 
of  being  roused  by  the  Colonel's  voice  saying, 
"  I  have  bad  news  to  tell  you  — "  and  was 
really  awakened  by  straining  in  her  dream  to 
discover  what  hindered  him  from  completing 
his  sentence. 

She  had  slept  some  time ;  it  was  now  after- 
noon, and  the  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  the 
returning  bands.  She  went  out  into  the  road 
and  saw  the  barrack  master  (he  was  easy  to 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  67 

distinguish  at  some  distance !)  pause  on  his 
homeward  way,  and  then  she  saw  her  son 
running  to  join  his  father,  with  his  sword  under 
his  arm ;  and  they  came  on  together,  talking 
as  they  came. 

And  as  soon  as  they  got  within  earshot  she 
said,  "  Have  you  bad  news  to  tell  me?" 

The  Colonel  ran  up  and  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm. 

"  Come  indoors,  dear  love." 

"You  are  both  well?  " 

"  Both  of  us.     Brutally  so." 

"  Quite  well,  dear  mother." 

Her  son  was  taking  her  other  hand  into 
caressing  care ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
the  bad  news. 

"  Please  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  There  has  been  an  accident  —  " 

"  To  whom?  " 

"  To  your  brother's  child ;  that  jolly  little 
chap  —  " 

"  O  Henry!   how?  " 

"  He  was  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  I  be- 
lieve, with  a  dog  in  his  arms.  George  saw  him 
when  he  went  past  —  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  he  didn't  fall  then.  I 
fancy  some  one  had  told  him  it  was  our  regi- 


68  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

ment.  The  dog  was  struggling,  but  he  would 
take  off  his  hat  to  us  — 

The  young  soldier  choked,  and  added  with 
difficulty,  "  I  think  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  face. 
Poor  little  cousin  !  " 

"  And  he  overbalanced  himself?  " 

"  Not  when  George  saw  him.  I  believe  it 
was  when  the  horse  artillery  were  going  by  at 
the  gallop.  They  say  he  got  so  much  excited, 
and  the  dog  barked,  and  they  both  fell.  Some 
say  there  were  people  moving  a  drag,  and  some 
that  he  fell  under  the  horse  of  a  patrol.  Any- 
how, I'm  afraid  he's  very  much  hurt.  They 
took  him  straight  home  in  an  ambulance- 
wagon  to  save  time.  Erskine  went  with  him. 
I  sent  off  a  telegram  for  them  for  a  swell  sur- 
geon from  town,  and  Lady  Jane  promised  a 
line  if  I  send  over  this  evening.  O'Reilly  must 
go  after  dinner  and  wait  for  the  news." 

O'Reilly,  sitting  stiffly  amid  the  coming  and 
going  of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  was  too  deeply 
devoured  by  anxiety  to  trouble  himself  as  to 
whether  the  footman's  survey  of  his  uniform 
bespoke  more  interest  or  contempt.  But  when 
—  just  after  gun  fire  had  sounded  from  the  dis- 
tant camp  —  Jemima  brought  him  the  long- 
waited  for  note,  he  caught  the  girl's  hand,  and 


THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE.  69 

held  it  for  some  moments  before  he  was  able 
to  say,  "Just  tell  me,  miss;  is  it  good  news  or 
bad  that  I'll  be  carrying  back  in  this  bit  of 
paper?  "  And  as  Jemima  only  answered  by 
sobs,  he  added,  almost  impatiently,  "  Will  he 
live,  dear?  Nod  your  head  if  ye  can  do  no 
more." 

Jemima  nodded,  and  the  soldier  dropped  her 
hand,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  himself  one 
of  those  shakes  with  which  an  Irishman  so 
often  throws  off  care. 

"  Ah,  then,  dry  your  eyes,  darlin' ;  while 
there's  life  there's  hope." 

But  Jemima  sobbed  still. 

"  The  doctor — from  London  —  says  he  may 
live  a  good  while,  but  —  but  —  he's  to  be  a  crip- 
ple all  his  days  !  " 

"  Now  wouldn't  I  rather  be  meeting  a  tiger 
this  evening  than  see  the  mistress's  face  when 
she  gets  that  news  !  " 

And  O'Reilly  strode  back  to  camp. 

Going  along  through  a  shady  part  of  the  road 
in  the  dusk,  seeing  nothing  but  the  red  glow  of 
the  pipe  with  which  he  was  consoling  himself,  the 
soldier  stumbled  against  a  lad  sleeping  on  the 
grass  by  the  roadside.  It  was  the  tramping 
Scotchman,  and  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  the  two 


70  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Kelts  broke  into  a  fiery  dialogue  that  seemed  as 
if  it  could  only  come  to  blows. 

It  did  not.  It  came  to  the  good-natured 
soldier's  filling  the  wayfarer's  pipe  for  him. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye  !  And  maybe  the 
next  time  a  decent  man  that's  hastening  home 
on  the  wings  of  misfortune  stumbles  against 
ye,  ye'll  not  be  so  apt  to  take  offence." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  man ;  I  was  barely 
wakened,  and  I  took  ye  for  one  of  these  gay 
redcoats  blustering  hame  after  a  bloodless 
battle  on  the  field  day,  as  they  ca'  it." 

"Bad  luck  to  the  field  day!  A  darker 
never  dawned ;  and  wouldn't  a  bloodier  battle 
have  spared  a  child?  " 

"Your  child?  What's  happened  to  the 
bairn?  " 

"  My  child  indeed  !  And  his  mother  a  lady 
of  title,  no  less." 

"What's  got  him?" 

"  Fell  out  of  the  carriage,  and  was  trampled 
into  a  cripple  for  all  the  days  of  his  life.  He 
that  had  set  as  fine  a  heart  as  ever  beat  on 
being  a  soldier ;  and  a  grand  one  he'd  have 
made.  '  Sure  'tis  a  nobleman  ye'll  be,'  says  I. 
'  Tis  an  owld  soldier  I  mean  to  be,  O'Reilly,' 
says  he.  And  —  " 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  /I 

"  Fond  of  the  soldiers  —  his  mother  a  leddy  ? 
Man !  Had  he  a  braw  new  velvet  coat  and  the 
face  of  an  angel  on  him?  " 

"  He  had  so." 

"  And  I  that  thocht  they'd  all  this  warld 
could  offer  them  !  — A  cripple?  Ech  sirs  !  " 


72  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  will  do  it  .  .  .  for  I  am  weak  by  nature,  and  very 
timorous,  unless  where  a  strong  sense  of  duty  holdeth  and  sup- 
porteth  me.  There  God  acteth,  and  not  His  creature."  —  Lady 
Jane  Grey. 

LEONARD  was  to  some  extent  a  spoiled  child. 
But  it  demands  a  great  deal  of  unselfish  fore- 
sight, and  of  self-discipline,  to  do  more  for  a 
beautiful  and  loving  pet  than  play  with  it. 

And  if  his  grace  and  beauty  and  high  spirits 
had  been  strong  temptations  to  give  him  every- 
thing he  desired,  and  his  own  way  above  all, 
how  much  greater  were  the  excuses  for  indul- 
ging every  whim  when  the  radiant  loveliness  of 
health  had  faded  to  the  wan  wistfulness  of  pain, 
when  the  young  limbs  bounded  no  more,  and 
when  his  boyish  hopes  and  hereditary  ambi- 
tions were  cut  off  by  the  shears  of  a  destiny 
that  seemed  drearier  than  death? 

As  soon  as  the  poor  child  was  able  to  be 
moved,  his  parents  took  a  place  on  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland,  and  carried  him  thither. 

The  neighborhood  of  Asholt  had  become  in- 
tolerable to  them  for  some  time  to  come,  and 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  73 

a  soft  climate  and  sea  breezes  were  recom- 
mended for  his  general  health. 

Jemima's  dismissal  was  revoked.  Leonard 
flatly,  and  indeed  furiously,  refused  to  have  any- 
other  nurse.  During  the  first  crisis  a  skilled 
hospital  nurse  was  engaged,  but  from  the  time 
that  he  fully  recovered  consciousness  he  would 
receive  help  from  no  hands  but  those  of  Jemima 
and  Lady  Jane. 

Far  older  and  wiser  patients  than  he  become 
ruthless  in  their  demands  upon  the  time  and 
strength  of  those  about  them ;  and  Leonard  did 
not  spare  his  willing  slaves  by  night  or  by  day. 
It  increased  their  difficulties  and  his  sufferings 
that  the  poor  child  was  absolutely  unaccustomed 
to  prompt  obedience,  and  disputed  the  doctor's 
orders  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  dispute 
all  others. 

Lady  Jane's  health  became  very  much  broken, 
but  Jemima  was  fortunately  possessed  of  a  sturdy 
body  and  an  inactive  mind,  and  with  a  devo- 
tion little  less  than  maternal  she  gave  up  both 
to  Leonard's  service. 

He  had  a  third  slave  of  his  bedchamber  — 
a  black  one  —  the  black  puppy,  from  whom 
he  had  resolutely  refused  to  part,  and  whom  he 
insisted  upon  having  upon  his  bed,  to  'the 


74  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

doctor's  disgust.  When  months  passed,  and 
the  black  puppy  became  a  black  dog,  large  and 
cumbersome,  another  effort  was  made  to  induce 
Leonard  to  part  with  him  at  night ;  but  he  only 
complained  bitterly. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  there  cannot  be  a  bed 
big  enough  for  me  and  my  dog.  I  am  an  in- 
valid, and  I  ought  to  have  what  I  want." 

So  the  Sweep  remained  as  his  bedfellow. 

The  Sweep  also  played  the  part  of  the  last 
straw  in  the  drama  of  Jemima's  life ;  for  Leon- 
ard would  allow  no  one  but  his  own  dear  nurse 
to  wash  his  own  dear  dog;  and  odd  hours,  in 
which  Jemima  might  have  snatched  a  little  rest 
and  relaxation,  were  spent  by  her  in  getting  the 
big  dog's  still  lanky  legs  into  a  tub,  and  keep- 
ing him  there,  and  washing  him,  and  drying  and 
combing  him  into  fit  condition  to  spring  back 
on  to  Leonard's  coverlet  when  that  imperious 
little  invalid  called  for  him. 

It  was  a  touching  manifestation  of  the  dog's 
intelligence  that  he  learned  with  the  utmost 
care  to  avoid  jostling  or  hurting  the  poor  suffer- 
ing little  body  of  his  master. 

Leonard's  fourth  slave  was  his  father. 

But  the  Master  of  the  House  had  no  faculty 
for  nursing,  and  was  by  no  means  possessed 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  75 

of  the  patience  needed  to  persuade  Leonard  for 
his  good.  So  he  could  only  be  with  the  child 
when  he  was  fit  to  be  read  or  played  to,  and 
later  on,  when  he  was  able  to  be  out  of  doors. 
And  at  times  he  went  away  out  of  sight  of  his 
son's  sufferings,  and  tried  to  stifle  the  remem- 
brance of  a  calamity  and  disappointment  whose 
bitterness  his  own  heart  alone  fully  knew. 

After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  years  Leonard 
suddenly  asked  to  be  taken  home.  He  was 
tired  of  the  shore,  and  wanted  to  see  if  the 
Sweep  remembered  the  park.  He  wanted  to 
see  if  Uncle  Rupert  would  look  surprised  to  see 
him  going  about  in  a  wheel-chair.  He  wanted 
to  go  to  the  camp  again,  now  the  doctor  said 
he  might  have  drives,  and  see  if  O'Reilly  was 
alive  still,  and  his  uncle,  and  his  aunt,  and  his 
cousin.  He  wanted  father  to  play  to  him  on 
their  own  organ,  their  very  own  organ,  and  — 
no,  thank  you  !  —  he  did  not  want  any  other 
music  now. 

He  hated  this  nasty  place,  and  wanted  to  go 
home.  If  he  was  going  to  live  he  wanted  to  live 
there,  and  if  he  was  going  to  die  he  wanted  to 
die  there,  and  have  his  funeral  his  own  way,  if 
they  knew  a  general  and  could  borrow  a  gun 
carriage  and  a  band. 


76  THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

He  didn't  want  to  eat  or  to  drink,  or  to  go  to 
sleep,  or  to  take  his  medicine,  or  to  go  out  and 
send  the  Sweep  into  the  sea,  or  to  be  read  to 
or  played  to;  he  wanted  to  go  home  —  home 
—  home! 

The  upshot  of  which  was,  that  before  his  par- 
ents had  time  to  put  into  words  the  idea  that 
the  agonizing  associations  of  Asholt  were  still 
quite  unendurable,  they  found  themselves  con- 
gratulating each  other  on  having  got  Leonard 
safely  home  before  he  had  cried  himself  into 
convulsions  over  twenty-four  hours'  delay. 

For  a  time,  being  at  home  seemed  to  revive 
him.  He  was  in  less  pain,  in  better  spirits,  had 
more  appetite,  and  was  out  a  great  deal  with 
his  dog  and  his  nurse.  But  he  fatigued  him- 
self, which  made  him  fretful,  and  he  certainly 
grew  more  imperious  every  day. 

His  whim  was  to  be  wheeled  into  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  place,  inside  and  out,  and  to 
show  them  to  the  Sweep.  And  who  could  have 
had  the  heart  to  refuse  him  anything  in  the  face 
of  that  dread  affliction  which  had  so  changed 
him  amid  the  unchanged  surroundings  of  his 
old  home? 

Jemima  led  the  life  of  a  prisoner  on  the  tread- 
mill. When  she  wasn't  pushing  him  about  she 


THE   STORY    OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  77 

was  going  errands  for  him,  fetching  and  carry- 
ing. She  was  "never  off  her  feet." 

He  moved  about  a  little  now  on  crutches, 
though  he  had  not  strength  to  be  very  active 
with  them,  as  some  cripples  are.  But  they  be- 
came ready  instruments  of  his  impatience  to 
thump  the  floor  with  one  end,  and  not  infre- 
quently to  strike  those  who  offended  him  with 
the  other. 

His  face  was  little  less  beautiful  than  of  old, 
but  it  looked  wan  and  weird;  and  his  beauty 
was  often  marred  by  what  is  more  destructive  of 
beauty  even  than  sickness  —  the  pinched  lines 
of  peevishness  and  ill-temper.  He  suffered  less, 
but  he  looked  more  unhappy,  was  more  difficult 
to  please,  and  more  impatient  with  all  efforts  to 
please  him.  But  then,  though  nothing  is  truer 
than  that  patience  is  its  own  reward,  it  has  to 
be  learned  first.  And,  with  children,  what  has 
to  be  learned  must  be  taught. 

To  this  point  Lady  Jane's  meditations  brought 
her  one  day  as  she  paced  up  and  down  her  own 
morning-room,  and  stood  before  the  window 
which  looked  down  where  the  elm-trees  made 
long  shadows  on  the  grass ;  for  the  sun  was 
declining,  greatly  to  Jemima's  relief,  who  had 


78  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


been  toiling  in  Leonard's  service  through   the 
hottest  hours  of  a  summer  day. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  79 

Lady  Jane  had  a  tender  conscience,  and  just 
now  it  was  a  very  uneasy  one.  She  was  one  of 
those  somewhat  rare  souls  who  are  by  nature 
absolutely  true.  Not  so  much  with  elaborate 
avoidance  of  lying,  or  an  aggressive  candor,  as 
straight-minded,  single-eyed,  clear-headed,  and 
pure-hearted ;  a  soul  to  which  the  truth  and 
reality  of  things,  and  the  facing  of  things,  came 
as  naturally  as  the  sham  of  them  and  the  blink- 
ing of  them  comes  to  others. 

When  such  a  nature  has  strong  affections  it 
is  no  light  matter  if  love  and  duty  come  into 
conflict.  They  were  in  conflict  now,  and  the 
mother's  heart  was  pierced  with  a  two-edged 
sword.  For  if  she  truly  believed  what  she 
believed,  her  duty  towards  Leonard  was  not 
only  that  of  a  tender  mother  to  a  suffering 
child,  but  the  duty  of  one  soul  to  another  soul, 
whose  responsibilities  no  man  might  deliver 
him  from,  nor  make  agreement  unto  God  that 
he  should  be  quit  of  them. 

And  if  the  disabling  of  his  body  did  not 
stop  the  developing,  one  way  or  another,  of  his 
mind ;  if  to  learn  fortitude  and  patience  under 
his  pains  was  not  only  his  highest  duty  but  his 
best  chance  of  happiness ;  then,  if  she  failed  to 
teach  him  these,  of  what  profit  was  it  that  she 


8O  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

would  willingly  have  endured  all  his  sufferings 
ten  times  over  that  life  might  be  all  sunshine 
for  him? 

And  deep  down  in  her  truthful  soul  another 
thought  rankled.  No  one  but  herself  knew 
how  the  pride  of  her  heart  had  been  stirred  by 
Leonard's  love  for  soldiers,  his  brave  ambitions, 
the  high  spirit  and  heroic  instincts  which  he 
inherited  from  a  long  line  of  gallant  men  and 
noble  women.  Had  her  pride  been  a  sham? 
Did  she  only  care  for  the  courage  of  the  battle- 
field ?  Was  she  willing  that  her  son  should  be 
a  coward,  because  it  was  not  the  trumpet's 
sound  that  summoned  him  to  fortitude?  She 
had  strung  her  heart  to  the  thought  that,  like 
many  a  mother  of  her  race,  she  might  live  to 
gird  on  his  sword ;  should  she  fail  to  help  him 
to  carry  his  cross? 

At  this  point  a  cry  came  from  below  the 
window,  and  looking  out  she  saw  Leonard,  be- 
side himself  with  passion,  raining  blows  like 
hail  with  his  crutch  upon  poor  Jemima ;  the 
Sweep  watching  matters  nervously  from  under 
a  garden  seat. 

Leonard  had  been  irritable  all  day,  and  this 
was  the  second  serious  outbreak.  The  first  had 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  8 1 

sent  the  Master  of  the  House  to  town  with  a 
deeply  knitted  brow. 

Vexed  at  being  thwarted  in  some  slight  mat- 
ter, when  he  was  sitting  in  his  wheel-chair  by 
the  side  of  his  father  in  the  library,  he  had 
seized  a  sheaf  of  papers  tied  together  with 
amber-colored  ribbon,  and  had  torn  them  to 
shreds.  It  was  a  fair  copy  of  the  first  two 
cantos  of  The  Soul's  Satiety,  a  poem  on  which 
the  Master  of  the  House  had  been  engaged  for 
some  years.  He  had  not  touched  it  in  Scot- 
land, and  was  now  beginning  to  work  at  it 
again.  He  could  not  scold  his  cripple  child, 
but  he  had  gone  up  to  London  in  a  far  from 
comfortable  mood. 

And  now  Leonard  was  banging  poor  Jemima 
with  his  crutches  !  Lady  Jane  felt  that  her  con- 
science had  not  roused  her  an  hour  too  soon. 

The  Master  of  the  House  dined  in  town,  and 
Leonard  had  tea  with  his  mother  in  her  very 
own  room ;  and  the  Sweep  had  tea  there  too. 

And  when  the  old  elms  looked  black  against 
the  primrose-colored  sky,  and  it  had  been 
Leonard's  bedtime  for  half  an  hour  past,  the 

three  were  together  still. 

******* 

"  I  beg   your   pardon,  Jemima,   I    am    very 


82  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 

sorry,  and  I'll  never  do  so  any  more.  I  didn't 
want  to  beg  your  pardon  before,  because  I  was 
naughty,  and  because  you  trode  on  my  Sweep's 
foot.  But  I  beg  your  pardon  now,  because  I 
am  good  —  at  least  I  am  better,  and  I  am  going 
to  try  to  be  good." 

Leonard's  voice  was  as  clear  as  ever,  and  his 
manner  as  direct  and  forcible.  Thus  he  con- 
trived to  say  so  much  before  Jemima  burst  in 
(she  was  putting  him  to  bed). 

"  My  lamb !  my  pretty ;  you're  always 
good  —  " 

"  Don't  tell  stories,  Jemima ;  and  please  don't 
contradict  me,  for  it  makes  me  cross ;  and  if  I 
am  cross  I  can't  be  good ;  and  if  I  am  not  good 
all  to-morrow,  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  go 
down-stairs  after  dinner.  And  there's  a  V.  C. 
coming  to  dinner,  and  I  do  want  to  see  him 
more  than  I  want  anything  else  in  all  the 
world." 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  83 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  What  is  there  in  the  world  to  distinguish  virtues  from  dis- 
honor, or  that  can  make  anything  rewardable,  but  the  labor 
and  the  danger,  the  pain  and  the  difficulty?" — Jeremy  Taylor. 

THE  V.  C.  did  not  look  like  a  bloodthirsty 
warrior.  He  had  a  smooth,  oval,  olivart  face, 
and  dreamy  eyes.  He  was  not  very  big,  and  he 
was  absolutely  unpretending.  He  was  a  young 
man,  and  only  by  the  courtesy  of  his  manners 
escaped  the  imputation  of  being  a  shy  young 
man. 

Before  the  campaign  in  which  he  won  his 
cross  he  was  most  distinctively  known  in  society 
as  having  a  very  beautiful  voice  and  a  very 
charming  way  of  singing,  and  yet  as  giving 
himself  no  airs  on  the  subject  of  an  accomplish- 
ment which  makes  some  men  almost  intolerable 
by  their  fellow-men. 

He  was  a  favorite  with  ladies  on  several  ac- 
counts, large  and  small.  Among  the  latter  was 
his  fastidious  choice  in  the  words  of  the  songs 
he  sang,  and  sang  with  a  rare  fineness  of  enun- 
ciation. 

It  is  not  always  safe  to  believe  that  a  singer 
means  what  he  sings ;  but  if  he  sing  very  noble 


84  THE   STORY  OF  A   SHORT  LIFE. 

words  with  justness  and  felicity,  the  ear  rarely 
refuses  to  flatter  itself  that  it  is  learning  some 
of  the  secrets  of  a  noble  heart 

Upon  a  silence  that  could  be  felt  the  last 
notes  of  such  a  song  had  just  fallen.  The  V.  C.'s 
lips  were  closed,  and  those  of  the  Master  of  the 
House  (who  had  been  accompanying  him)  were 
still  parted  with  a  smile  of  approval,  when  the 
wheels  of  his  chair  and  some  little  fuss  at  the 
drawing-room  door  announced  that  Leonard 
had  come  to  claim  his  mother's  promise.  And 
when  Lady  Jane  rose  and  went  to  meet  him, 
the  V.  C.  followed  her. 

"  There  is  my  boy,  of  whom  I  told  you. 
Leonard,  this  is  the  gentleman  you  have  wished 
so  much  to  see." 

The  V.  C.,  who  sang  so  easily,  was  not  a 
ready  speaker,  and  the  sight  of  Leonard  took 
him  by  surprise,  and  kept  him  silent.  He  had 
been  prepared  to  pity  and  be  good-natured  to 
a  lame  child  who  had  a  whim  to  see  him ;  but 
not  for  this  vision  of  rare  beauty,  beautifully 
dressed,  with  crippled  limbs  lapped  in  Eastern 
embroideries  by  his  color-loving  father,  and 
whose  wan  face  and  wonderful  eyes  were  lam- 
bent with  an  intelligence  so  eager  and  so  wist- 
ful, that  the  creature  looked  less  like  a  morsel 


THE    STORY    OF  A   SHORT    LIFE.  85 

of  suffering  humanity  than  like  a  soul  fretted  by 
the  brief  detention  of  an  all-but-broken  chain. 

"  How  do  you  do,  V.  C.  ?  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
seeing  me  because  I  have  been  a  coward,  for 
I  mean  to  be  brave  now;  and  that  is  why  I 
wanted  to  see  you  so  much,  because  you  are 
such  a  very  brave  man.  The  reason  I  was  a 
coward  wras  partly  with  being  so  cross  when  my 
back  hurts,  but  particularly  with  hitting  Jemima 
with  my  crutches,  for  no  one  but  a  coward 
strikes  a  woman.  She  trode  on  my  dog's  toes. 
This  is  my  dog.  Please  pat  him;  he  would 
like  to  be  patted  by  a  V.  C.  He  is  called  the 
Sweep  because  he  is  black.  He  lives  with  me 
all  along.  I  have  hit  him,  but  I  hope  I  shall 
not  be  naughty  again  any  more.  I  wanted  to 
grow  up  into  a  brave  soldier,  but  I  don't  think, 
perhaps,  that  I  ever  can  now ;  but  mother  says 
I  can  be  a  brave  cripple.  I  would  rather  be  a 
brave  soldier,  but  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  a  brave 
cripple.  Jemima  says  there's  no  saying  what 
you  can  do  till  you  try.  Please  show  me  your 
Victoria  Cross." 

"  It's  on  my  tunic,  and  that's  in  my  quarters 
in  camp.  I'm  so  sorry." 


86  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

"  So  am  I.  I  knew  you  lived  in  camp.  I 
like  the  camp,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about 
your  hut.  Do  you  know  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Jones?  Do  you  know  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Jones? 
And  my  cousin,  Mr.  Jones?  Do  you  know  a 
very  nice  Irishman,  with  one  good-conduct 
stripe,  called  O'Reilly?  Do  you  know  my 
cousin  Alan  in  the  Highlanders?  But  I  believe 
he  has  gone  away.  I  have  so  many  things  I 
want  to  ask  you,  and  oh  !  —  those  ladies  are 
coming  after  us  !  They  want  to  take  you  away. 
Look  at  that  ugly  old  thing  with  a  hook-nose, 
and  an  eye-glass,  and  a  lace  shawl,  and  a  green 
dress ;  she's  just  like  the  Poll  parrot  in  the 
housekeeper's  room.  But  she's  looking  at  you. 
Mother  !  mother  dear !  Don't  let  them  take 
him  away.  You  did  promise  me,  you  know 
you  did,  that  if  I  was  good  all  to-day  I  should 
talk  to  the  V.  C.  I  can't  talk  to  him  if  I  can't 
have  him  all  to  myself.  Do  let  us  go  into  the 
library,  and  be  all  to  ourselves.  Do  keep  those 
women  away,  particularly  the  Poll  parrot.  Oh, 
I  hope  I  sha'n't  be  naughty !  I  do  feel  so  im- 
patient !  I  was  good,  you  know  I  was.  Why 
doesn't  James  come  and  show  my  friend  into 
the  library  and  carry  me  out  of  my  chair?  " 

"  Let  me  carry  you,  little  friend,    and  we'll 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  87 

run  away  together,  and  the  company  will  say, 
'  There  goes  a  V.  C.  running  away  from  a  Poll 
parrot  in  a  lace  shawl !  '  ' 

"  Ha !  ha !  You  are  nice  and  funny.  But 
can  you  carry  me?  Take  off  this  thing!  Did 
you  ever  carry  anybody  that  had  been  hurt?  " 

"  Yes,  several  people  —  much  bigger  than 
you." 

"Men?" 

"  Men." 

"  Men  hurt  like  me,  or  wounded  in  battle?" 

"  Wounded  in  battle." 

"  Poor  things  !     Did  they  die?  " 

"  Some  of  them." 

"  I  shall  die  pretty  soon,  I  believe.  I  meant 
to  die  young,  but  more  grown-up  than  this,  and 
in  battle.  About  your  age,  I  think.  How  old 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-five  in  October." 

"  That's  rather  old.  I  meant  about  Uncle 
Rupert's  age.  He  died  in  battle.  He  was 
seventeen.  You  carry  very  comfortably.  Now 
we're  safe  !  Put  me  on  the  yellow  sofa,  please. 
I  want  all  the  cushions,  because  of  my  back. 
It's  because  of  my  back,  you  know,  that  I  can't 
grow  up  into  a  soldier.  I  don't  think  I  pos- 
sibly can.  Soldiers  do  have  to  have  such  very 


88  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

straight  backs,  and  Jemima  thinks  mine  will 
never  be  straight  again  '  on  this  side  the  grave.' 
So  I've  got  to  try  and  be  brave  as  I  am ;  and 
that's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Do  you  mind 
my  talking  rather  more  than  you  ?  I  have  so 
very  much  to  say,  and  I've  only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  because  of  its  being  long  past  my 
bedtime,  and  a  good  lot  of  that  has  gone." 

"  Please  talk,  and  let  me  listen." 

"  Thank  you.  Pat  the  Sweep  again,  please. 
He  thinks  we're  neglecting  him.  That's  why 
he  gets  up  and  knocks  you  with  his  head." 

"  Poor  Sweep  !      Good  old  dog  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Now  should  you  think  that  if 
I  am  very  good,  and  not  cross  about  a  lot  of 
pain  in  my  back  and  my  head  —  really  a  good 
lot  —  that  that  would  count  up  to  be  as  brave 
as  having  one  wound  if  I'd  been  a  soldier?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Mother  says  it  would,  and  I  think  it  might. 
Not  a  very  big  wound,  of  course,  but  a  poke 
with  a  spear,  or  something  of  that  sort.  It  is 
very  bad  sometimes,  particularly  when  it  keeps 
you  awake  at  night." 

"  My  little  friend,  that  would  count  for  lying 
out  all  night  wounded  on  the  field  when  the 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  89 

battle's  over.  Soldiers  are  not  always  fight- 
ing." 

"  Did  you  ever  lie  out  for  a  night  on  a  battle- 
field?" 

"  Yes,  once." 

"  Did  the  night  seem  very  long?  " 

"  Very  long,  and  we  were  very  thirsty." 

"  So  am  I  sometimes,  but  I  have  barley- 
water  and  lemons  by  my  bed,  and  jelly,  and 
lots  of  things.  You'd  no  barley-water,  had 
you?  " 

"No." 

"Nothing?  " 

"  Nothing  till  the  rain  fell,  then  we  sucked 
our  clothes." 

"  It  would  take  a  lot  of  my  bad  nights  to 
count  up  to  that !  But  I  think  when  I'm  ill  in 
bed  I  might  count  that  like  being  a  soldier  in 
hospital?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  thought  —  no  matter  how  good  I  got  to 
be —  nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  be  as 
brave  as  a  real  battle,  leading  your  men  on  and 
fighting  for  your  country,  though  you  know  you 
may  be  killed  any  minute.  But  mother  says, 
if  I  could  try  very  hard,  and  think  of  poor 
Jemima  as  well  as  myself,  and  keep  brave  in 


90  THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE. 

spite  of  feeling  miserable,  that  then  (particu- 
larly as  I  sha'n't  be  very  long  before  I  do  die) 
it  would  be  as  good  as  if  I'd  lived  to  be  as  old 
as  Uncle  Rupert,  and  fought  bravely  when  the 
battle  was  against  me,  and  cheered  on  my  men, 
though  I  knew  I  could  never  come  out  of  it 
alive.  Do  you  think  it  could  count  up  to  that? 
Do  you?  Oh,  do  answer  me,  and  don't  stroke 
my  head !  I  get  so  impatient.  You've  been 
in  battles  —  do  you  ?  " 

"I  do,  I  do." 

"  You're  a  V.  C.,  and  you  ought  to  know.  I 
suppose  nothing  —  not  even  if  I  could  be  good 
always,  from  this  minute  right  away  till  I  die  — 
nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  the  courage  of 
a  V.  C.?" 

"  God  knows  it  could,  a  thousand  times 
over !  " 

"Where  are  you  going?  Please  don't  go. 
Look  at  me.  They're  not  going  to  chop  the 
Queen's  head  off,  are  they?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  What  are  you  thinking 
about? " 

"  Why,  because —  Look  at  me  again.  Ah  ! 
you've  winked  it  away,  but  your  eyes  were 
full  of  tears;  and  the  only  other  brave  man  I 
ever  heard  of  crying  was  Uncle  Rupert,  and 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  91 

that  was  because  he  knew  they  were  going  to 
chop  the  poor  King's  head  off." 

"  That  was  enough  to  make  anybody  cry." 
"  I   know   it  was.     But  do  you   know  now, 
when  I'm  wheeling  about  in  my  chair  and  play- 
ing with  him,  and   he  looks  at  me  wherever  I 


go ;  sometimes  for  a  bit  I  forget  about  the 
King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry  for  me.  Sorry,  I 
mean,  that  I  can't  jump  about,  and  creep  under 
the  table.  Under  the  table  was  the  only  place 
where  I  could  get  out  of  the  sight  of  his  eyes. 
Oh,  dear  !  there's  Jemima." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  be  good?  " 


92  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  I'm  going  to  do  lessons 
again.  I  did  a  little  French  this  morning — a 
story.  Mother  did  most  of  it;  but  I  know 
what  the  French  officer  called  the  poor  old 
French  soldier  when  he  went  to  see  him  in  a 
hospital." 

"What?." 

"  Mon  brave.  That  means  '  my  brave  fel- 
low.' A  nice  name,  wasn't  it?" 

"Very  nice.     Here's  Jemima." 

"  I'm  coming,  Jemima.  J,'m  not  going  to  be 
naughty;  but  you  may  go  back  to  the  chair, 
for  this  officer  will  carry  me.  He  carries  so 
comfortably.  Come  along,  my  Sweep.  Thank 
you  so  much.  You  have  put  me  in  beautifully. 
Kiss  me,  please.  Good  night,  V.  C." 

"  Good  night,  man  brave." 


THE    STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  93 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  no  strength  at  all  of  body,  nor  yet  of  mind; 
but  would,  if  I  could,  though  I  can  but  crawl,  spend  my  life  in 
the  pilgrims'  way.  When  I  came  at  the  gate  that  is  at  the 
head  of  the  way,  the  lord  of  that  place  did  entertain  me  freely 
.  .  .  gave  me  such  things  that  were  necessary  for  my  jour- 
ney, and  bid  me  hope  to  the  end.  .  .  .  Other  brunts  I  also 
look  for;  but  this  I  have  resolved  on,  to  wit,  to  run  when  I 
can,  to  go  when  I  cannot  run,  and  to  creep  when  I  cannot  go. 
As  to  the  main,  I  thank  Him  that  loves  me,  I  am  fixed;  my 
way  is  before  me,  my  mind  is  beyond  the  river  that  has  no 
bridge,  though  I  am  as  you  see." 

"  And  behold  —  Mr.  Keady-to-halt  came  by  with  his  crutches 
in  his  hand,  and  he  was  also  going  on  pilgrimage."  — Runyarfs 
Pilgrim's  Progress. 

"AND  if  we  tie  itwith  the  amber-colored  rib- 
bon, then  every  time  I  have  it  out  to  put  in  a 
new  poor  thing,  I  shall  remember  how  very 
naughty  I  was,  and  how  I  spoilt  your  poetry." 

"  Then  we'll  certainly  tie  it  with  something 
else,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House,  and  he 
jerked  away  the  ribbon  with  a  gesture  as  deci- 
sive as  his  words.  "  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
If  /  forget  it,  you  needn't  remember  it !  " 

"Oh,  but,  indeed,  I  ought  to  remember  it; 
and  I  do  think  I  better  had —  to  remind  myself 
never,  never  to  be  so  naughty  again !  " 


94  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 

"  Your  mother's  own  son !  "  muttered  the 
Master  of  the  House ;  and  he  added  aloud : 
"  Well,  I  forbid  you  to  remember  It —  so  there  ! 
It'll  be  naughty  if  you  do.  Here's  some  red 
ribbon.  That  should  please  you,  as  you're 
so  fond  of  soldiers." 

Leonard  and  his  father  were  seated  side  by 
side  at  a  table  in  the  library.  The  dog  lay  at 
their  feet. 

They  were  very  busy ;  the  Master  of  the 
House  working  under  Leonard's  direction,  who, 
issuing  his  orders  from  his  wheel-chair,  was  so 
full  of  anxiety  and  importance,  that  when  Lady 
Jane  opened  the  library  door  he  knitted  his 
brow  and  put  up  one  thin  little  hand,  in  a 
comically  old-fashioned  manner,  to  deprecate 
interruption. 

"  Don't  make  any  disturbance,  mother  dear, 
if  you  please.  Father  and  I  are  very  much 
engaged." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Len,  it  would  be  kind  to 
let  poor  mother  see  what  we  are  doing,  and  tell 
her  about  it?  " 

Leonard  pondered  an  instant. 

"Well  —  I  don't  mind." 

Then,  as  his  mother's  arm  came  round  him, 
he  added,  impetuously: — 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  95 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to.  You  can  show,  father 
dear,  and  /'//  do  all  the  explaining." 

The  Master  of  the  House  displayed  some 
sheets  of  paper,  tied  with  ribbon,  which  already 
contained  a  good  deal  of  his  handiwork,  including 
a  finely  illuminated  capital  L  on  the  title-page. 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  '  Book  of  Poor  Things,' 
mother  dear.  We're  doing  it  in  bits  first ;  then 
it  will  be  bound.  It's  a  collection  —  a  collec- 
tion of  poor  things  who've  been  hurt,  like  me ; 
or  blind  like  the  organ-tuner ;  or  had  their 
heads  —  no,  not  their  heads,  they  couldn't  go 
on  doing  things  after  that  —  had  their  legs  or 
their  arms  chopped  off  in  battle,  and  are  very 
good  and  brave  about  it,  and  manage  very,  very 
nearly  as  well  as  people  who  have  got  nothing 
the  matter  with  them.  Father  doesn't  think 
'  Poor  Things  '  is  a  good  name.  He  wanted  to 
call  it  '  Masters  of  Fate/  because  of  some 
poetry.  What  was  it,  father?" 

"'Man  is  Man  and  Master  of  his  Fate,'" 
quoted  the  Master  of  the  House. 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  But  I  don't  understand  it  so 
well  as  poor  things.  They  are  poor  things,  you 
know,  and,  of  course,  we  shall  only  put  in  brave 
poor  things :  not  cowardly  poor  things.  It 
was  all  my  idea  only  father  is  doing  the  ruling, 


96  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 

and  printing,  and  illuminating  for  me.  I 
thought  of  it  when  the  organ-tuner  was  here." 

"  The  organ-tuner?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  the  organ,  and  I  made  James 
carry  me  in,  and  put  me  in  the  arm-chair  close 
to  the  organ.  And  the  tuner  was  tuning,  and 
he  looked  round,  and  James  said,  '  It's  the 
young  gentleman ' ;  and  the  tuner  said,  '  Good 
morning,  sir,'  and  I  said,  'Good  morning,  tuner; 
go  on  tuning,  please,  for  I  want  to  see  you  do 
it.'  And  he  went  on ;  and  he  dropped  a  tin 
thing,  like  a  big  extinguisher,  on  to  the  floor ; 
and  he  got  down  to  look  for  it,  and  he  felt 
about  in  such  a  funny  way  that  I  burst  out 
laughing.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude  ;  I  couldn't 
help  it.  And  I  said,  'Can't  you  see  it?  It's 
just  under  the  table.'  And  he  said,  '  I  can't  see 
anything,  sir ;  I'm  stone  blind.'  And  he  said, 
perhaps  I  would  be  kind  enough  to  give  it 
him.  And  I  said  I  was  very  sorry,  but  I  hadn't 
got  my  crutches,  and  so  I  couldn't  get  out  of 
my  chair  without  some  one  to  help  me.  And 
he  was  so  awfully  sorry  for  me,  you  can't  think  ! 
He  said  he  didn't  know  I  was  more  afflicted 
than  he  was ;  but  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him, 
for  I've  tried  shutting  my  eyes ;  and  you  can 
bear  it  just  a  minute,  but  then  you  must  open 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  97 

them  to  see  again.  And  I  said,  '  How  can  you 
do  anything  when  you  see  nothing  but  blackness 
all  along?  '  And  he  says  he  can  do  well  enough 
as  long  as  he's  spared  the  use  of  his  limbs  to  earn 
his  own  livelihood.  And  I  said,  '  Are  there  any 
more  blind  men,  do  you  think,  that  earn  their  own 
livelihood  ?  I  wish  I  could  earn  mine  ! '  And  he 
said,  '  There  are  a  good  many  blind  tuners,  sir.' 
And  I  said, '  Go  on  tuning,  please  :  I  like  to  hear 
you  do  it.'  And  he  went  on,  and  I  did  like  him 
so  much.  Do  you  know  the  blind  tuner, 
mother  dear?  And  don't  you  like  him  very 
much  ?  I  think  he  is  just  what  you  think  very 
good,  and  I  think  V.  C.  would  think  it  nearly 
as  brave  as  a  battle  to  be  afflicted  and  go  on 
earning  your  own  livelihood  when  you  can  see 
nothing  but  blackness  all  along.  Poor  man  !  " 

"  I  do  think  it  very  good  of  him,  my  darling, 
and  very  brave." 

"I  knew  you  would.  And  then  I  thought 
perhaps  there  are  lots  of  brave  afflicted  peo- 
ple —  poor  things !  and  perhaps  there  never 
was  anybody  but  me  who  wasn't.  And  I 
wished  I  knew  their  names,  and  I  asked  the 
tuner  his  name,  and  he  told  me.  And  then  I 
thought  of  my  book,  for  a  good  idea  —  a  col- 
lection, you  know.  And  I  thought  perhaps, 


98  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

by  degrees,  I  might  collect  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  poor  things,  all  brave.  And  so  I  am 
making  father  rule  it  like  his  diary,  and  we've 
got  the  tuner's  name  down  for  the  First  of  Janu- 
ary; and  if  you  can  think  of  anybody  else 
you  must  tell  me,  and  if  I  think  they're 
afflicted  enough  and  brave  enough,  I'll  put 
them  in.  But  I  shall  have  to  be  rather  partic- 
ular, for  we  don't  want  to  fill  up  too  fast.  Now, 
father,  I've  done  the  explaining,  so  you  can 
show  your  part.  Look,  mother,  hasn't  he 
ruled  it  well?  There's  only  one  tiny  mess, 
and  it  was  the  Sweep  shaking  the  table  with 
getting  up  to  be  patted." 

"  He  has  ruled  it  beautifully.  But  what  a 
handsome  L !  " 

"  Oh,  I  forget !  Wait  a  minute,  father,  the 
explaining  isn't  quite  finished.  What  do  j-'ou 
think  that  L  stands  for,  mother  dear?" 

"  For  Leonard,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  no  !  What  fun  !  You're  quite  wrong. 
Guess  again." 

"  Is  it  not  the  tuner's  name?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  He's  in  the  First  of  January-  I 
told  you  so.  And  in  plain  printing.  Fath  r 
really  couldn't  illuminate  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  poor  things  !  " 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  99 

"  Of  course  he  couldn't.  It  was  silly  of  me 
to  think  so." 

"  Do  you   give  it  up?" 

"  I  must.     I  cannot  guess." 

"  It's  the  beginning  of  '  Lcetus  sorte  mea.' 
Ah,  you  know  now !  You  ought  to  have 
guessed  without  my  telling  you.  Do  you 
remember?  I  remember,  and  I  mean  to  re- 
member. I  told  Jemima  that  very  night.  I 
said,  '  It  means  Happy  with  my  fate,  and  in  our 
family  we  have  to  be  happy  with  it,  whatever 
sort  of  a  one  it  is.'  For  you  told  me  so.  And 
I  told  the  tuner,  and  he  liked  hearing  about  it 
very  much.  And  then  he  went  on  tuning,  and 
he  smiled  so  when  he  was  listening  to  the  notes, 
I  thought  he  looked  very  happy ;  so  I  asked 
him,  and  he  said,  '  Yes,  he  was  always  happy 
when  he  was  meddling  with  a  musical  instru- 
ment.' But  I  thought  most  likely  all  brave 
poor  things  are  happy  with  their  fate,  even  if 
they  can't  tune ;  and  I  asked  father,  and  he 
said,  '  Yes,'  and  so  we  are  putting  it  into  my 
collection  —  partly  for  that,  and  partly,  when 
the  coat-of-arms  is  done,  to  show  that  the  book 
belongs  to  me.  Now,  father  dear,  the  explain- 
ing is  really  quite  finished  this  time,  and  you 
may  do  all  the  rest  of  the  show-off  yourself!  " 


100          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  St.  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead, 
That  have  such  neighbors  near." 

—  Alarmiotu 

"  O  JEMIMA  !  Jemima  !  I  know  you  are  very 
kind,  and  I  do  mean  not  to  be  impatient ;  but 
either  you're  telling  stories  or  you're  talking 
nonsense,  and  that's  a  fact.  How  can  you  say 
that  that  blue  stuff  is  a  beautiful  match,  and 
will  wash  the  exact  color,  and  that  you're  sure 
I  shall  like  it  when  it's  made  up  with  a  cord  and 
tassels,  when  it's  not  the  blue  I  want,  and  when 
you  know  the  men  in  hospital  haven't  any  tas- 
sels to  their  dressing-gowns  at  all !  You're  as 
bad  as  that  horrid  shopman,  who  made  me  so 
angry.  If  I  had  not  been  obliged  to  be  good, 
I  should  have  liked  to  hit  him  hard  with  my 
crutch,  when  he  kept  on  saying  he  knew  I 
should  prefer  a  shawl-pattern  lined  with  crim- 
son, if  I  would  let  him  send  one.  Oh,  here 
comes  father !  Now,  that's  right ;  he'll  know. 
Father  dear,  is  this  blue  pattern  the  same  color 
as  that?" 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what's  the  matter,  my 
child?" 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  IOI 

"It's  about  my  dressing-gown;  and  I  do  get 
.o  tired  about  it,  because  people  will  talk  non- 
sense, and  won't  speak  the  truth,  and  won't  be- 
lieve I  know  what  I  want  myself.  Now,  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  want.  Do  you  know  the  hospital 
lines?  " 

"In  the  camp?     Yes." 

"  And  you've  seen  all  the  invalids  walking 
about  in  blue  dressing-gowns  and  little  red 
ties?" 

"  Yes.     Charming  bits  of  color." 

"  Hurrah  !  that's  just  it!  Now,  father  dear, 
if  you  wanted  a  dressing-gown  exactly  like  that, 
would  you  have  one  made  of  this  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  knew  it !  Crude,  coarse,  staring 
—  please  don't  wave  it  in  front  of  my  eyes, 
unless  you  want  to  make  me  feel  like  a  bull 
with  a  red  rag  before  him  !  " 

"  Oh,  father  dear,  you  are  sensible  !  (Jem- 
ima, throw  this  pattern  away,  please!)  But 
you'd  have  felt  far  worse  if  you'd  seen  the  shawl- 
pattern  lined  with  crimson.  Oh,  I  do  wish  I 
could  have  been  a  bull  that  wasn't  obliged  to 
be  Icetus  for  half  a  minute,  to  give  that  shopman 
just  one  toss  !  But  I  believe  the  best  way  to 
do  will  be  as  O'Reilly  says  —  get  Uncle  Henry 
to  buy  me  a  real  one  out  of  store,  and  -have  it 


IO2  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

made  smaller  for  me.  And  I  should  like  it 
'  out  of  store.'  " 

From  this  conversation  it  will  be  seen  that 
Leonard's  military  bias  knew  no  change.  Had 
it  been  less  strong  it  could  only  have  served  to 
intensify  the  pain  of  the  heartbreaking  associa- 
tions which  anything  connected  with  the  troops 
now  naturally  raised  in  his  parents'  minds.  But 
it  was  a  sore  subject  tfiat  fairly  healed  itself. 

The  camp  had  proved  a  more  cruel  neigh- 
bor than  the  Master  of  the  House  had  ever 
imagined  in  his  forebodings,  but  it  also  proved 
a  friend.  For  if  the  high,  ambitious  spirit,  the 
ardent  imagination,  the  vigorous  will,  which  fired 
the  boy's  fancy  for  soldiers  and  soldier  life,  had 
thus  led  to  his  calamity,  they  found  in  that 
sympathy  with  men  of  hardihood  and  lives  of 
discipline,  not  only  an  interest  that  never  failed 
and  that  lifted  the  sufferer  out  of  himself,  but  a 
constant  incentive  to  those  virtues  of  courage 
and  patience  for  which  he  struggled  with  touch- 
ing conscientiousness. 

Then,  without  disparagement  to  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  efforts  to  be  good,  it  will  be  well  be- 
lieved that  his  parents  did  their  best  to  make 
goodness  easy  to  him.  His  vigorous  individual- 
ity still  swayed  the  plans  of  the  household,  and 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  103 

these  came  to  be  regulated  by  those  of  the 
camp  to  a  degree  which  half  annoyed  and  half 
amused  its  master. 

The  Asholt  Gazette  was  delivered  as  regularly 
as  the  Times;  but  on  special  occasions,  the 
arrangements  for  which  were  only  known  the 
night  before,  O'Reilly  or  some  other  Or- 
derly might  be  seen  wending  his  way  up,  the 
Elm  Avenue  by  breakfast-time,  "  with  Colonel 
Jones's  compliments,  and  the  Orders  of  the  Day 
for  the  young  gentleman."  And  so  many  were 
the  military  displays  at  which  Leonard  con- 
trived to  be  present,  that  the  associations  of 
pleasure  and  alleviation  with  parades  and  ma- 
noeuvres came  at  last  almost  to  blot  out  the 
associations  of  pain  connected  with  that  fatal 
field  day. 

He  drove  about  a  great  deal,  either  among 
air-cushions  in  the  big  carriage  or  in  a  sort  of 
perambulator  of  his  own,  which  was  all  too 
easily  pushed  by  any  one,  and  by  the  side  of 
which  the  Sweep  walked  slowly  and  contentedly, 
stopping  when  Leonard  stopped,  wagging  his 
tail  when  Leonard  spoke,  and  keeping  sym- 
pathetic step  to  the  invalid's  pace  with  four 
sinewy  black  legs,  which  were  young  enough 
and  strong  enough  to  have  ranged  for  miles 


104          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

over  the  heather  hills  and  never  felt  fatigue. 
A  true  dog  friend  ! 

What  the  Master  of  the  House  pleasantly 
called  "  our  military  mania,"  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  climax  during  certain  July  manoeu- 
vres of  the  regiments  stationed  at  Asholt,  and 
of  additional  troops  who  lay  out  under  canvas 
in  the  surrounding  country. 

Into  this  mimic  campaign  Leonard  threw 
himself  heart  and  soul.  His  camp  friends  fur- 
nished him  with  early  information  of  the  plans 
for  each  day,  so  far  as  the  generals  of  the  re- 
spective forces  allowed  them  to  get  wind,  and 
with  an  energy  that  defied  his  disabilities  he 
drove  about  after  "  the  armies,"  and  then 
scrambled  on  his  crutches  to  points  of  vantage 
where  the  carriage  could  not  go. 

And  the  Master  of  the  House  went  with 
him. 

The  house  itself  seemed  soldier-bewitched. 
Orderlies  were  as  plentiful  as  rooks  among  the 
elm-trees.  The  Staff  clattered  in  and  out,  and 
had  luncheon  at  unusual  hours,  and  strewed 
the  cedar-wood  hall  with  swords  and  cocked 
hats,  and  made  low  bows  over  Lady  Jane's 
hand,  and  rode  away  among  the  trees. 

These  were  weeks  of  pleasure  and  enthusiasm 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  105 

for  Leonard,  and  of  not  less  delight  for  the 
Sweep ;  but  they  were  followed  by  an  illness. 

That  Leonard  bore  his  sufferings  better 
helped  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  undoubt- 
edly increased ;  and  he  over-fatigued  himself 
and  got  a  chill,  and  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  took 
the  Sweep  to  bed  with  him. 

And  it  was  when  he  could  play  at  no  "  soldier- 
game,"  except  that  of  "  being  in  hospital,"  that 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  blue  dressing- 
gown  of  regulation  color  and  pattern,  and  met 
with  the  difficulties  aforesaid  in  carrying  out 
his  whim. 


106          THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form." 

—  King  John,  Act.  III. 

LONG  years  after  they  were  written,  a  bundle 
of  letters  lay  in  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet  in  Lady 
Jane's  morning-room,  carefully  kept,  each  in  its 
own  envelope,  and  every  envelope  stamped 
with  the  postmark  of  Asholt  Camp. 

They  were  in  Leonard's  handwriting.  A 
childish  hand,  though  good  for  his  age,  but 
round  and  clear  as  his  own  speech. 

After  much  coaxing  and  considering,  and 
after  consulting  with  the  doctors.  Leonard  had 
been  allowed  to  visit  the  barrack  master  and 
his  wife.  After  his  illness  he  was  taken  to  the 
seaside,  which  he  liked  so  little  that  he  was 
bribed  to  stay  there  by  the  promise  that,  if  the 
doctor  would  allow  it,  he  should,  on  his  return, 
have  the  desire  of  his  heart,  and  be  permitted 
to  live  for  a  time  "  in  camp,"  and  sleep  in  a 
hut. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  IOJ 

The  doctor  gave  leave.  Small  quarters 
would  neither  mar  nor  mend  an  injured  spine; 
and  if  he  felt  the  lack  of  space  and  luxuries  to 
which  he  was  accustomed,  he  would  then  be 
content  to  return  home. 

The  barrack  master's  hut  only  boasted  one 
spare  bedchamber  for  visitors,  and  when  Leon- 
ard and  his  dog  were  in  it  there  was  not  much 
elbow  room.  A  sort  of  cupboard  was  appro- 
priated for  the  use  of  Jemima,  and  Lady  Jane 
drove  constantly  into  camp  to  see  her  son. 
Meanwhile  he  proved  a  very  good  correspond- 
ent, as  his  letters  will  show  for  themselves. 

LETTER  I. 

«*  BARRACK  MASTER'S  HUT, 

The  Camp,  Asholt. 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  MOTHER,  —  I  hope  you  are  quite 
well,  and  father  also.  I  am  very  happy,  and  so  is  the 
Sweep.  He  tried  sleeping  on  my  bed  last  night,  but 
there  was  not  room,  though  I  gave  him  as  much  as  ever 
I  could.  So  he  slept  on  the  floor.  It  is  a  camp  bed, 
and  folds  up,  if  you  want  it  to.  We  have  nothing  like 
i*.  It  belonged  to  a  real  General.  The  General  is  dead. 
Uncle  Henry  bought  it  at  his  sale.  You  always  have  a 
sale  if  you  die,  and  your  brother-officers  buy  your  things 
to  pay  your  debts.  Sometimes  you  get  them  very  cheap. 
I  mean  the  things. 

"  The  drawers  fold  up,  too.  I  mean  the  chest  of 
drawers,  and  so  does  the  wash-hand-stand.  It  goes  into 
the  corner,  and  takes  up  very  little  room.  There 


IO8  THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

couldnt  be  a  bigger  one,  or  the  door  would  not  open  — 
the  one  that  leads  into  the  kitchen.  The  other  door 
leads  into  a  passage.  I  like  having  the  kitchen  next  me. 
You  can  hear  everything.  You  can  hear  O'Reilly  come 
in  the  morning,  and  I  call  to  him  to  open  my  door,  and 
he  says,  «  Yes,  sir,'  and  opens  it,  and  lets  the  Sweep  out 
for  a  run,  and  takes  my  boots.  And  you  can  hear  the 
tap  of  the  boiler  running  with  your  hot  water  before  she 
brings  it,  and  you  can  smell  the  bacon  frying  for  break- 
fast. 

1 '  Aunt  Adelaide  was  afraid  I  should  not  like   being 
woke  up  so  early,  but  I  do.     I  waked  a  good  many  times. 
First  with  the  gun.     It's  like  a  very  short 
thunder,  and  shakes  you.     And  then  the 
bugles  play.     Father  would    like   them! 
And  then  right  away  in  the  distance  — 
trumpets.     And  the  air  comes  in  so  fresh 
at    the  window.     And  you  pull  up  the 
clothes,  if  they've  fallen  off  you,  and  go 
to  sleep  again.    Mine  had 
all  fallen  off,  except  the 
sheet,  and  the  Sweep  was 
lying  on  them.     Wasn't 
it  clever  of  him  to  have 
found  them  in  the  dark? 
If  I  can't  keep  them 
on,    I'm    going    to 
have    campaigning 
blankets ;    they  are 
sewed  up  like  a  bag, 
and   you    get    into 
them. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  found  on  my  coverlet  when  I 
went  to  bed?  A  real,  proper,  blue  dressing-gown,  and  a 
crimson  tie  !  It  came  out  of  store,  and  Aunt  Adelaide 
made  it  smaller  herself.  Wasn't  it  kind  of  her? 

"  I  have  got  it  on  now.  Presently  I  am  going  to  dress 
properly,  and  O'Reilly  is  going  to  wheel  me  down  to  the 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  109 

stores.     It  will  be  great  fun.     My  cough  has  been  pretty 
bad,  but  it's  no  worse  than  it  was  at  home. 

"  There's  a  soldier  come  for  the  letters,  and  they  are 
obliged  to  be  ready. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  LEONARD. 

"P.  S.  —  Uncle  Henry  says  his  father  was  very  old- 
fashioned,  and  he  always  liked  him  to  put  '  Your  dutiful 
son,'  so  I  put  it  to  you. 

«'  All  these  crosses  mean  kisses,  Jemima  told  me." 

LETTER   II. 

"  .  .  .  I  WENT  to  church  yesterday,  though  it  was 
only  Tuesday.  I  need  not  have  gone  unless  I  liked,  but 
I  liked.  There  is  service  every  evening  in  the  Iron 
Church,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  goes,  and  so  do  I,  and  some- 
times Uncle  Henry.  There  are  not  very  many  people 
go,  but  they  behave  very  well,  what  there  are.  You 
can't  tell  what  the  officers  belong  to  in  the  afternoon, 
because  they  are  in  plain  clothes ;  but  Aunt  Adelaide 
thinks  they  were  royal  engineers,  except  one  commis- 
sariat one,  and  an  A.  D.  C.,  and  the  colonel  of  a  regi- 
ment that  marched  in  last  week.  You  can't  tell  what  the 
ladies  belong  to  unless  you  know  them. 

"You  can  always  tell  the  men.  Some  were  barrack 
sergeants,  and  some  were  sappers,  and  there  were  two 
gunners,  and  an  army  hospital  corps,  and  a  cavalry  cor- 
poral who  came  all  the  way  from  the  barracks,  and  sat 
near  the  door,  and  said  very  long  prayers  to  himself  at 
the  end.  And  there  were  some  schoolmasters,  and  a 
man  with  gray  hair  and  no  uniform,  who  mends  the  roofs 
and  teaches  in  the  Sunday  school,  and  I  forget  the  rest. 
Most  of  the  choir  are  sappers  and  commissariat  men,  and 
the  boys  are  soldiers'  sons.  The  sappers  and  commis- 
sariat belong  to  our  brigade. 


I  10          THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

«« There  is  no  sexton  to  our  church.  He's  a  church 
orderly.  He  has  put  me  a  kind  of  a  back  in  the  corner 
of  one  of  the  officers'  seats,  to  make  me  comfortable  in 
church,  and  a  very  high  footstool.  I  mean  to  go  every- 
day, and  as  often  as  I  can  on  Sundays,  without  getting 
too  much  tired. 

"  You  can  go  very  often  on  Sunday  mornings  if  you 
want  to.  They  begin  at  eight  o'clock,  and  go  on  till 
luncheon.  There's  a  fresh  band,  and  a  fresh  chaplain, 
and  a  fresh  sermon,  and  a  fresh  congregation  every  time. 
Those  are  parade  sen-ices.  The  others  are  voluntary- 
services,  and  I  thought  that  meant  for  the  volunteers ; 
but  O'Reilly  laughed,  and  said,  •  No,  it  only  means  that 
there's  no  occasion  to  go  to  them  at  all  '  —  he  means 
unless  you  like.  But  then  I  do  like.  There's  no  sermon 
on  week-days.  Uncle  Henry  is  very  glad,  and  so  am  I. 
I  think  it  might  make  my  back  ache. 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear  mother,  that  you  won't  be  able  to 
understand  all  I  write  to  you  from  the  camp ;  but  if  you 
don't,  you  must  ask  me  and  I'll  explain. 

"When  I  say  our  quarters,  remember  I  mean  our 
hut ;  and  when  I  say  rations  it  means  bread  and  meat, 
and  I'm  not  quite  sure  if  it  means  coals  and  candles  as 
well.  But  I  think  I'll  make  you  a  dictionary  if  I  can  get 
a  ruled  boik  from  the  canteen.  It  would  make  this  letter 
too  much  to  go  for  a  penny  if  I  put  all  the  words  in  I 
know.  Cousin  George  tells  me  them  when  he  comes  in 
after  mess.  He  told  me  the  camp  name  for  Iron  Church 
is  Tin  Tabernacle ;  but  Aunt  Adelaide  says  it's  not,  and 
I'm  not  to  call  it  so,  so  I  don't.  But  that's  what  he  says. 

"  I  like  Cousin  George  very  much.  I  like  his  uniform. 
He  is  very  thin,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Uncle 
Henry  is  very  stout,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Last 
night  George  came  in  after  mess,  and  two  other  officers 
out  of  his  regiment  came  too.  And  then  another  officer 
came  in.  And  they  chaffed  Uncle  Henry,  and  Uncle 
Henry  doesn't  mind.  And  the  other  officer  said,  •  Three 
times  round  a  subaltern —  once  round  a  barrack  master.' 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  I  I  I 

And  so  they  got  Uncle  Henry's  sword-belt  out  of  his 
dressing-room,  and  George  and  his  friends  stood  back  to 
back,  and  held  up  their  jackets  out  of  the  way,  and  the 
other  officer  put  the  belt  right  round  them,  all  three, 
and  told  them  not  to  laugh.  And  Aunt  Adelaide  said, 
<  Oh  ! '  and  «  You'll  hurt  them.'  And  he  said,  '  Not  a 
bit  of  it.1  And  he  buckled  it.  So  that  shows.  It  was 
great  fun. 

"I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  LEONARD. 

"  P.  S. —  The  other  officer  is  an  Irish  officer  —  at  least, 
I  think  so,  but  I  can't  be  quite  sure,  because  he  won't 
speak  the  truth.  I  said,  «  You  talk  rather  like  O'Reilly; 
are  you  an  Irish  soldier?'  And  he  said,  'I'd  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  quartered  for  six  months  in  the  County  Cork, 
and  it  was  the  ruin  of  my  French  accent.1  So  I  said, 
1  Are  you  a  Frenchman  ? '  and  they  all  laughed,  so  I  don't 
know. 

"  P.  S.  No.  2. —  My  back  has  been  very  bad,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  says  I  have  been  very  good.  This  is  not  meant 
for  swagger,  but  to  let  you  know. 

{'•'•Swagger  means  boasting.  If  you're  a  soldier,  swag- 
ger is  the  next  worst  thing  to  running  away.) 

"P.  S.  No.  3. —  I  know  another  officer  now.  I  like 
him.  He  is  a  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G.  I  would  let  you  guess 
that  if  you  could  ever  find  it  out,  but  you  couldn't.  It 
means  Deputy-Assistant-Quarter-Master-General.  He  is 
not  so  grand  as  you  would  think  ;  a  plain  general  is  really 
grander.  Uncle  Henry  says  so,  and  he  knows." 

LETTER   III. 

««  .  .  .  I  HAVE  seen  V.  C.  I  have  seen  him 
twice.  I  have  seen  his  cross.  The  first  time  was  at  the 
sports.  Aunt  Adelaide  drove  me  there  in  the  pony  car- 
riage. We  stopped  at  the  enclosure.  The  enclosure  is 


I  1 2  THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

a  rope,  with  a  man  taking  tickets.  The  sports  are  in- 
side ;  so  is  the  tent,  with  tea ;  so  are  the  ladies,  in  awfully 
pretty  dresses,  and  the  officers  walking  round  them. 

"  There's  great  fun  outside,  at  least,  I  should  think  so. 
There's  a  crowd  of  people,  and  booths,  and  a  skeleton 
man.  I  saw  his  picture.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him, 
but  Aunt  Adelaide  didn't  want  to,  so  I  tried  to  be  latus 
without. 

"  When  we  got  to  the  enclosure  there  was  a  gentleman 
taking  his  ticket,  and  when  he  turned  round  he  was  V.  C. 
Wasn't  it  funny?  So  he  came  back  and  said,  'Why, 
here's  my  little  friend ! '  And  he  said,  '  You  must  let 
me  carry  you.'  And  so  he  did,  and  put  me  among  the 
ladies.  But  the  ladies  got  him  a  good  deal.  He  went 
and  talked  to  lots  of  them,  but  I  tried  to  be  latus  without 
him ;  and  then  Cousin  George  came,  and  lots  of  others, 
and  then  the  V.  C.  came  back  and  showed  me  things 
about  the  sports. 

"Sports  are  very  hard  work;  they  make  you  so  hot 
and  tired ;  but  they  are  very  nice  to  watch.  The  races 
were  great  fun,  particularly  when  they  fell  in  the  water, 
and  the  men  in  sacks  who  hop,  and  the  blindfolded  men 
with  wheelbarrows.  Oh,  they  were  so  funny!  They 
kept  wheeling  into  each  other,  all  except  one,  and  he 
went  wheeling  and  wheeling  right  away  up  the  field,  all 
by  himself  and  all  wrong!  I  did  laugh. 

"But  what  I  liked  best  were  the  tent-pegging  men, 
and  most  best  of  all,  the  tug-of-war. 

"The  Irish  officer  did  tent-pegging.  He  has  the 
dearest  pony  you  ever  saw.  He  is  so  fond  of  it,  and  it 
is  so  fond  of  him.  He  talks  to  it  in  Irish,  and  it  under- 
stands him.  He  cut  off  the  Turk's  head,  —  not  a  real 
Turk,  a  sham  Turk,  and  not  a  whole  one,  only  the  head 
stuck  on  a  pole. 

"  The  tug-of-war  was  splendid !  Two  sets  of  men 
pulling  at  a  rope  to  see  which  is  strongest.  They  did 
pull !  They  pulled  so  hard,  both  of  them,  with  all  their 
might  and  main,  that  we  thought  it  must  be  a  drawn 


THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT    LIFE.  113 

battle.  But  at  last  one  set  pulled  the  other  over,  and 
then  there  was  such  a  noise  that  my  head  ached  dread- 
fully, and  the  Irish  officer  carried  me  into  the  tent  and 
gave  me  some  tea.  And  then  we  went  home. 

"  The  next  time  I  saw  V.  C.  was  on  Sunday  at  parade 
service.  He  is  on  the  staff,  and  wears  a  cocked  hat. 
He  came  in  with  the  general,  and  the  A.  D.  C.,  who 
was  at  church  on  Tuesday,  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him. 

"After  church,  everybody  went  about  saying  «  Good 
morning,'  and  '  How  hot  it  was  in  church  ! '  and  V.  C. 
helped  me  with  my  crutches,  and  showed  me  his  cross. 
And  the  general  came  up  and  spoke  to  me,  and  I  saw 
his  medals,  and  he  asked  how  you  were,  and  I  said, 
'  Quite  well,  thank  you.'  And  then  he  talked  to  a  lady 
with  some  little  boys  dressed  like  sailors.  She  said  how 
hot  it  was  in  church,  and  he  said,  'I  thought  the  roof 
was  coming  off  with  that  last  hymn.'  And  she  said,  «  My 
little  boys  call  it  the  Tug-of-War  hymn ;  they  are  very 
fond  of  it.'  And  he  said,  '  The  men  seem  very  fond  of 
it.'  And  he  turned  round  to  an  officer  I  didn't  know, 
and  said,  '  They  ran  away  from  you  that  last  verse  but 
one.'  And  the  officer  said,  '  Yes,  sir,  they  always  do ; 
so  I  stop  the  organ  and  let  them  have  it  their  own  way.' 

"  I  asked  Aunt  Adelaide,  'Does  that  officer  play  the 
organ?'  And  she  said,  'Yes,  and  he  trains  the  choir. 
He's  coming  in  to  supper.'  So  he  came.  If  the  officers 
stay  sermon  on  Sunday  evenings,  they  are  late  for  mess. 
So  the  chaplain  stops  after  prayers,  and  anybody  that 
likes  to  go  out  before  sermon  can.  If  they  stay  sermon, 
they  go  to  supper  with  some  of  the  married  officers  instead 
of  dining  at  mess. 

"  So  he  came.  I  liked  him  awfully.  He  plays  like 
father,  only  I  think  he  can  play  more  difficult  things. 

"He  says,  'Tug-of-War  hymn'  is  the  very  good 
name  for  that  hymn,  because  the  men  are  so  fond  of  •  it 
they  all  sing,  and  the  ones  at  the  bottom  of  the  church 
'  drag  over'  the  choir  and  the  organ. 

"  He  said,  '  I've  talked  till  I'm  black  in  the  face,  and  all 


114          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

to  no  purpose.  It  would  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.1  So 
I  said,  'Are  you  a  saint?'  And  he  laughed  and  said, 
'No,  Fm  afraid  not;  Fm  only  a  kapellmeister.'  So  I 
call  him  «  Kapellmeister.'  I  do  like  him. 

"  I  do  like  the  Tug-of-War  hymn.  It  begins,  <  The 
Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war.'  That's  the  one.  But 
we  have  it  to  a  tune  of  our  own,  on  Saints'  Days.  The 
verse  the  men  tug  with  is,  '  A  noble  army,  men  and  boys.' 
I  think  they  like  it,  because  it's  about  the  army ;  and  so 
do  I. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  LEONARD. 

"  P.  S. —  I  call  the  ones  with  cocked  hats  and  feathers, 
'cockatoos.'  There  was  another  cockatoo  who  walked 
away  with  the  general.  Not  very  big.  About  the  big- 
ness of  the  stuffed  general  in  the  pawnbroker's  window ; 
and  I  do  think  he  had  quite  as  many  medals.  I  wanted 
to  see  them.  I  wish  I  had.  He  looked  at  me.  He  had 
a  very  gentle  face;  but  I  was  afraid  of  it.  Was  I  a 
coward  ? 

"You  remember  what  these  crosses  are,  don't  you? 
I  told  you." 


LETTER  IV. 

"  THIS  is  a  very  short  letter.  It's  only  to  ask  you  to 
send  my  Book  of  Poor  Things  by  the  orderly  who  takes 
this,  unless  you  are  quite  sure  you  are  coming  to  see  me 
to-day. 

"A  lot  of  officers  are  collecting  for  me,  and  there's 
one  in  the  Engineers  can  print  very  well,  so  he'll  put  them 
in. 

"A  colonel  with  only  one  arm  dined  here  yesterday. 
You  can't  think  how  well  he  manages,  using  first  his 
knife  and  then  his  fork,  and  talking  so  politely  all  the 
time.  He  has  all  kinds  of  dodges,  so  as  not  to  give 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  I  1 5 

trouble  and  do  everything  for  himself.  I  mean  to  put 
him  in. 

"  I  wrote  to  Cousin  Alan,  and  asked  him  to  collect  for 
me.  I  like  writing  letters,  and  I  do  like  getting  them. 
Uncle  Henry  says  he  hates  a  lot  of  posts  in  the  day.  1 
hate  posts  when  there's  nothing  for  me.  I  like  all  the 
rest. 

"Cousin  Alan  wrote  back  by  return.  He  says  he  can 
only  think  of  the  old  chap,  whose  legs  were  cut  off  in 
battle : 

'  And  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
He  fought  upon  his  stumps !  ' 

It  was  very  brave,  if  it's  true.  Do  you  think  it  is? 
He  did  not  tell  me  his  name. 

««  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

' '  LEONARD. 
"  P.  S.  —  I  am  Icztus  sor,'e  tnea,  and  so  is  the  Sweep.' 


LETTER   V. 

"Tnis  letter  is  not  aboux  a  poor  thing.  It's  about  a 
saint  —  a  soldier  saint  —  which  I  and  the  chaplain  think 
nearly  the  best  kind.  His  nan-e  was  Martin  :  he  got  to  be 
a  bishop  in  the  end,  but  wherj  he  first  enlisted  he  was 
only  a  catechumen.  Do  you  know  what  a  catechumen 
is,  dear  mother?  Perhaps  if  you're  not  quite  so  high- 
church  as  the  engineer  I  told  you  of,  who  prints  so 
beautifully,  you  may  not  know.  It  means  when  you've 
been  born  a  heathen,  and  are  going  to  be  a  Christian, 
only  you've  not  yet  been  baptized.  The  engineer  has 
given  me  a  picture  of  him,  St.  Martin  I  mean,  and  now 
he  has  printed  underneath  it,  in  beautiful  thick  biack 
letters  that  you  can  hardly  read  if  you  don't  know  what 
they  ire,  and  the  very  particular  words  in  red,  '  Martin 
—  yet  but  a  catechumen ! '  He  can  illuminate,  too, 
though  not  quite  so  well  as  father:  he  is  very  high- 


Il6          THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

church,  and  I'm  high-church  too,  and  so  is  our  chaplain, 
but  he  is  broad  as  well.  The  engineer  thinks  he's 
rather  too  broad,  but  Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt  Adelaide 
think  he's  quite  perfect,  and  so  do  I,  and  so  does  every- 
body else.  He  comes  in  sometimes,  but  not  very  often 
because  he's  so  busy.  He  came  the  other  night  because 
I  wanted  to  confess.  What  I  wanted  to  confess  was  that 
I  had  laughed  in  church.  He  is  a  very  big  man,  and  he 
has  a  very  big  surplice,  with  a  great  lot  of  gathers  behind, 
which  makes  my  engineer  very  angry,  because  it's  the 
wrong  shape ;  and  he  preaches  splendidly,  the  chaplain  I 
mean,  straight  out  of  his  head,  and  when  all  the  soldiers 
are  listening  he  swings  his  arms  about,  and  the  surplice 
gets  in  his  way,  and  he  catches  hold  of  it,  and  oh ! 
mother  dear,  I  must  tell  you  what  it  reminded  me  of. 
When  I  was  very  little,  and  father  used  to  tie  a  knot  in  his 
big  pocket-handkerchief  and  put  his  first  finger  into  it  to 
make  a  head  that  nodded,  and  wind  the  rest  round  his 
hand,  and  stick  out  his  thumb  and  another  finger  for 
arms,  and  to  the  '  Yea-verily-man'  to  amuse  you  and 
me.  It  was  last  Sunday,  and  a  most  splendid  sermon, 
but  his  stole  got  round  under  his  ear,  and  his  sleeves  did 
look  just  like  the  Yea-verily-man,  and  I  tried  not  to  look, 
and  then  I  caught  the  Irish  officer's  eye  and  he  twinkled, 
and  then  I  laughed,  because  I  remembered  his  telling 
Aunt  Adelaide,  '  That's  the  grandest  old  Padre  that  ever 
got  up  into  a  pulpit,  but  did  ye  ever  see  a  man  get  so 
mixed  up  with  his  clothes?'  I  was  very  sorry  when  I 
laughed,  so  I  settled  I  would  confess,  for  my  engineer 
thinks  you  ought  always  to  confess,  so  when  our  chaplain 
came  in  after  dinner  on  Monday,  I  confessed,  but  he 
only  laughed,  till  he  broke  down  Aunt  Adelaide's  black 
and  gold  chair.  He  is  too  big  for  it,  really.  Aunt 
Adelaide  never  lets  Uncle  Henry  sit  on  it.  So  he  was 
very  sorry,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  begged  him  not  to  mind, 
and  then  in  came  my  engineer  in  war-paint  (if  you  look 
out  war-paint  in  the  canteen  book  I  gave  you,  you'll  see 
what  it  means) .  He  was  in  war-paint  because  he  was 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  I  I/ 

orderly  officer  for  the  evening,  and  he'd  got  his  sword 
under  one  arm,  and  the  picture  under  the  other,  and  his 
short  cloak  on  to  keep  it  dry,  because  it  was  raining. 
He  made  the  frame  himself;  he  can  make  Oxford  frames 
quite  well,  and  he's  going  to  teach  me  how  to.  Then  I 
said,  '  Who  is  it?1  so  he  told  me,  and  now  I'm  going  to 
tell  you,  in  case  you  don't  know.  Well,  St.  Martin  was 
born  in  Hungary,  in  the  year  316.  His  father  and 
mother  were  heathens,  but  when  he  was  about  my  age 
he  made  up  his  mind  he  would  be  a  Christian.  His 
father  and  mother  were  so  afraid  of  his  turning  into  a 
monk,  that  as  soon  as  he  was  old  enough  they  enlisted 
him  in  the  army,  hoping  that  would  cure  him  of  wanting 
to  be  a  Christian,  but  it  didn't  —  Martin  wanted  to  be  a 
Christian  just  as  much  as  ever;  still  he  got  interested 
with  his  work  and  his  comrades,  and  he  dawdled  on  only 
a  catechumen,  and  didn't  make  full  profession  and  get 
baptized.  One  winter  his  corps  was  quartered  at  Amiens, 
and  on  a  very  bitter  night,  near  the  gates,  he  saw  a  half- 
naked  beggar  shivering  with  the  cold.  (I  asked  my 
engineer,  'Was  he  orderly  officer  for  the  evening?'  but 
he  said,  '  More  likely  on  patrol  duty,  with  some  of  his 
comrades.'  However,  he  says  he  won't  be  sure,  for 
Martin  was  tribune,  which  is  very  nearly  a  colonel,  two 
years  afterwards,  he  knows.)  When  Martin  saw  the 
beggar  at  the  gate,  he  pulled  out  his  big  military  cloak, 
and  drew  his  sword,  and  cut  it  in  half,  and  wrapped  half 
of  it  round  the  poor  beggar  to  keep  him  warm.  I  know 
you'll  think  him  very  kind  ;  but  wait  a  bit,  that's  not  all. 
Next  night  when  Martin  the  soldier  was  asleep  he  had  a 
vision.  Did  you  ever  have  a  vision?  I  wish  I  could! 
This  was  Martin's  vision.  He  saw  Christ  our  Lord  in 
heaven,  sitting  among  the  shining  hosts,  and  wearing 
over  one  shoulder  half  a  military  cloak,  and  as  Martin 
saw  him  he  heard  him  say,  '  Behold  the  mantle  given 
to  Me  by  Martin  —  yet  but  a  catechumen!'  After  that 
vision  he  didn't  wait  any  longer ;  he  was  baptized  at 
once. 


Il8          THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

«•  Mother  dear,  I've  told  you  this  quite  truthfully,  but 
I  can't  tell  it  you  so  splendidly  as  my  engineer  did,  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  holding  out  his  cape, 
and  drawing  his  sword,  to  show  me  how  Martin  divided 
his  cloak  with  the  beggar.  Aunt  Adelaide  isn't  afraid  of 
swords,  she  is  too  used  to  them,  but  she  says  she  thinks 
soldiers  do  things  in  huts  they  would  never  think  of  doing 
in  big  rooms,  just  to  show  how  neatly  they  can  manage, 
without  hurting  anything.  The  chaplain  broke  the  chair, 
but  then  he  isn't  exactly  a  soldier,  and  the  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G. 
that  I  told  you  of  comes  in  sometimes  and  says,  '  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mrs.  Jones,  but  I  must,' — and  puts  both 
his  hands  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  lifts  his  body  till 
he  gets  his  legs  sticking  straight  out.  They  are  very- 
long  legs,  and  he  and  the  sofa  go  nearly  across  the  room, 
but  he  never  kicks  anything,  it's  a  kind  of  athletics ; 
and  there's  another  officer  who  comes  in  at  one  door  and 
Catherine-wheel's  right  across  to  the  farthest  corner,  and 
he  is  over  six  foot,  too,  but  they  never  break  anything. 
We  do  laugh. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  engineer  doing  St. 
Martin.  He  had  to  go  directly  afterwards,  and  then  the 
chaplain  came  and  stood  in  front  of  me,  on  the  hearth- 
rug, in  the  firelight,  just  where  my  engineer  had  been 
standing,  and  he  took  up  the  picture,  and  looked  at  it. 
So  I  said,  *  Do  you  know  about  St.  Martin?  '  and  he  said 
he  did,  and  he  said,  '  One  of  the  greatest  of  those  many 
soldiers  of  the  cross  who  have  also  fought  under  earthly 
banners.'  Then  he  put  down  the  picture,  and  got  hold 
of  his  elbow  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  was  holding  his  sur- 
plice out  of  the  way,  and  said,  '  Great,  as  well  as  good, 
for  this  reason ;  he  was  one  of  those  rare  souls  to  whom 
the  counsels  of  God  are  clear,  not  to  the  utmost  of  the 
times  in  which  he  lived,  but  in  advance  of  those  times. 
Such  men  are  not  always  popular,  nor  even  largely  suc- 
cessful in  their  day,  but  the  light  they  hold  lightens  more 
generations  of  this  naughty  world,  than  the  pious  tapers 
of  commoner  men.  You  know  that  Martin  the  catechu- 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  119 

men  became  Martin  the  saint  —  do  you  know  that  Mar- 
tin the  soldier  became  Martin  the  bishop?  —  and  that  in 
an  age  of  credulity  and  fanaticism,  that  man  of  God  dis- 
credited some  relics  very  popular  with  the  pious  in  his 
diocese,  and  proved  and  exposed  them  to  be  those  of  an 
executed  robber.  Later  in  life  it  is  recorded  of  Martin, 
bishop  of  Tours,  that  he  lifted  his  voice  in  protest  against 
persecutions  for  religion,  and  the  punishment  of  heretics. 
In  the  nineteenth  century  we  are  little  able  to  judge  how 
great  must  have  been  the  faith  of  that  man  in  the  God  of 
truth  and  of  love.'  It  was  like  a  little  sermon,  and  I 
think  this  is  exactly  how  he  said  it,  for  I  got  Aunt  Ade- 
laide to  write  it  out  for  me  this  morning,  and  she  remem- 
bers sermons  awfully  well.  I've  been  looking  St.  Martin 
out  in  the  calendar;  his  day  is  the  roth  of  November. 
He  is  not  a  collect,  epistle,  and  gospel  saint,  only  one  of 
the  black  letter  ones  ;  but  the  loth  of  November  is  going 
to  be  on  a  Sunday  this  year,  and  I  am  so  glad,  for  I've 
asked  our  chaplain  if  we  may  have  the  Tug-of-War  hymn 
for  St.  Martin  —  and  he  has  given  leave. 

"  It's  a  long  way  off;  I  wish  it  came  sooner.  So  now, 
mother  dear,  you  have  time  to  make  your  arrangements 
as  you  like,  but  you  see  that  whatever  happens,  /must  be 
in  camp  on  St.  Martin's  Day. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  LEONARD." 


120          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  I  have  fought  a  good  fight.  I  have  finished  my  course.  I 
have  kept  the  faith.  Henceforth  —  !  "  —  I  Tim.  iv.  7. 

IT  was  Sunday.  Sunday,  the  tenth  of  No- 
vember—  St.  Martin's  Day. 

Though  it  was  in  November,  a  summer  day. 
A  day  of  that  Little  Summer  which  alternately 
claims  St.  Luke  and  St.  Martin  as  its  patrons, 
and  is  apt  to  shine  its  brightest  when  it  can 
claim  both  —  on  the  feast  of  All  Saints. 

Sunday  in  camp.  With  curious  points  of 
likeness  and  unlikeness  to  English  Sundays  else- 
where. Like  in  that  general  aspect  of  tidiness 
and  quiet,  of  gravity  and  pause,  which  betrays 
that  a  hard-working  and  very  practical  people 
have  thought  good  to  keep  much  of  the  Sab- 
bath with  its  Sunday.  Like,  too,  in  the  little 
groups  of  children,  gay  in  Sunday  best,  and 
grave  with  Sunday  books,  trotting  to  Sunday 
school. 

Unlike,  in  that  to  see  all  the  men  about  the 
place  washed  and  shaved  is  not,  among  soldiers, 
peculiar  to  Sunday.  Unlike,  also,  in  a  more 
festal  feeling  produced  by  the  gay  gatherings  of 
men  and  officers  on  church  parade  (far  distant 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  121 

be  the  day  when  parade  services  shall  be  abol- 
ished!), and  by  the  exhilarating  sounds  of  the 
bands  with  which  each  regiment  marched  from 
its  parade-ground  to  the  church. 

Here  and  there  small  detachments  might  be 
met  making  their  way  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
church  in  camp,  or  to  places  of  worship  of  vari- 
ous denominations  in  the  neighboring  town ; 
and  on  Blind  Baby's  parade  (where  he  was  pre- 
maturely crushing  his  Sunday  frock  with  his 
drum-basket  in  ecstatic  sympathy  with  the 
bands),  a  corporal  of  exceptional  views  was 
parading  himself  and  two  privates  of  the  same 
denomination,  before  marching  the  three  of  them 
to  their  own  peculiar  prayer-meeting. 

The  Brigade  for  the  Iron  Church  paraded 
early  (the  sunshine  and  sweet  air  seemed  to 
promote  alacrity).  And  after  the  men  were 
seated  their  officers  still  lingered  outside,  chat- 
ting with  the  ladies  and  the  Staff,  as  these  assem- 
bled by  degrees,  and  sunning  themselves  in  the 
genial  warmth  of  St.  Martin's  Little  Summer. 

The  V.  C.  was  talking  with  the  little  boys  in 
sailor  suits  and  their  mother,  when  the  officer 
who  played  the  organ  came  towards  them. 

"Good  morning,  Kapellmeister  !  "  said  two  or 
three  voices. 


122          THE    STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Nicknames  were  common  in  the  camp,  and 
this  one  had  been  rapidly  adopted. 

"  Ye  look  cloudy  this  fine  morning,  Kapell- 
meister !  "  cried  the  Irish  officer.  "  Got  the 
toothache?" 

The  Kapellmeister  shook  his  head,  and  forced 
a  smile  which  rather  intensified  than  diminished 
the  gloom  of  a  countenance  which  did  not 
naturally  lend  itself  to  lines  of  levity.  Was  he 
not  a  Scotchman  and  also  a  musician?  His  lips 
smiled  in  answer  to  the  chaff,  but  his  sombre 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  V.  C.  They  had  —  as 
some  eyes  have — an  odd,  summoning  power, 
and  the  V.  C.  went  to  meet  him. 

When  he  said,  "  I  was  in  there  this  morning," 
the  V.  C.'s  eyes  followed  the  Kapellmeister's  to 
the  barrack  master's  hut,  and  his  own  face  fell. 

"  He  wants  the  Tug-of-War  hymn,"  said  the 
Kapellmeister. 

"  He's  not  coming  to  church?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  he's  set  his  heart  on  hearing 
the  Tug-of-War  hymn  through  his  bedroom 
window ;  and  it  seems  the  chaplain  has  prom- 
ised we  shall  have  it  to-day.  It's  a  most 
amazing  thing,"  added  the  Kapellmeister,  shoot- 
ing out  one  arm  writh  a  gesture,  common  to  him 
when  oppressed  by  an  idea,  —  "it's  a  most 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE.  123 

amazing  thing !  For  I  think,  if  I  were  in  my 
grave,  that  hymn  —  as  these  men  bolt  with  it  — 
might  make  me  turn  in  my  place  of  rest ;  but 
it's  the  last  thing  I  should  care  to  hear  if  I  were 
ill  in  bed  !  However,  he  wants  it,  poor  lad,  and 
he  asked  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would  turn  out- 
side when  it  begins,  and  sing  so  that  he  can 
hear  your  voice  and  the  words." 

"  Oh,  he  can  never  hear  me  over  there  !  " 

"  He  can  hear  you  fast  enough  !  It's  quite 
close.  He  begged  me  to  ask  you,  and  I  was  to 
say  it's  his  last  Sunday." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  V.  C.  looked  at  the 
little  "  officers'  door,"  which  was  close  to  his 
usual  seat,  which  always  stood  open  in  summer 
weather,  ''nd  half  in  half  out  of  which  men 
often  stood  in  the  crush  of  a  parade  service. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  the  matter  except 
his  own  intense  dislike  to  anything  approaching 
to  display.  Also  he  had  become  more  attached 
than  he  could  have  believed  possible  to  the 
gallant-hearted  child  whose  worship  of  him  had 
been  flattery  as  delicate  as  it  was  sincere.  It 
was  no  small  pain  to  know  that  the  boy  lay 
dying — a  pain  he  would  have  preferred  to  bear 
in  silence. 

"  Is  he  very  much  set  upon  it?  " 


124          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

"  Absolutely." 

"  Is  she  —  is  Lady  Jane  there?  " 

"  All  of  them.      He  can't  last  the  day  out." 

"When  will  it  be  sung  —  that  hymn,  I  mean?' 

"  I've  put  it  on  after  the  third  Collect." 

"  All  right." 

The  V.  C.  took  up  his  sword  and  went  to 

his  seat,  and  the  Kapellmeister  took  up  his  and 

went  to  the  organ. 

******* 

In  the  barrack  master's  hut  my  hero  lay 
dying.  His  mind  was  now  absolutely  clear, 
but  during  the  night  it  had  wandered — wan- 
dered in  a  delirium  that  was  perhaps  some 
solace  of  his  sufferings,  for  he  had  believed 
himself  to  be  a  soldier  on  active  service,  bear- 
ing the  brunt  of  battle  and  the  pain  of  wounds  ; 
and  when  fever  consumed  him,  he  thought  it 
was  the  heat  of  India  that  parched  his  throat 
and  scorched  his  skin ;  and  called  again  and 
again  in  noble  raving  to  imaginary  comrades  to 
keep  up  heart  and  press  forward. 

About  four  o'clock  he  sank  into  stupor,  and 
the  doctor  forced  Lady  Jane  to  go  and  lie 
down,  and  the  Colonel  took  his  wife  away  to 
rest  also. 

At  gun  fire  Leonard  opened  his  eyes.     For 


THE   STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE.  12$ 

some  minutes  he  gazed  straight  ahead  of  him, 
and  the  Master  of  the  House,  who  sat  by  his 
bedside,  could  not  be  sure  whether  he  were  still 
delirious  or  no ;  but  when  their  eyes  met  he 
saw  that  Leonard's  senses  had  returned  to  him, 
and  kissed  the  wan  little  hand  that  was  feeling 
about  for  the  Sweep's  head  in  silence  that  he 
almost  feared  to  break. 

Leonard  broke  in  by  saying,  "  When  did  you 
bring  Uncle  Rupert  to  camp,  father  dear?  " 

"  Uncle  Rupert  is  at  home,  my  darling;  and 
you  are  in  Uncle  Henry's  hut." 

"  I  know  I  am ;  and  so  is  Uncle  Rupert. 
He  is  at  the  end  of  the  room  there.  Can't  you 
see  him  ?  " 

"  No,  Len ;  I  only  see  the  wall,  with  your 
text  on  it  that  poor  old  father  did  for  you." 

"  My  '  Goodly  heritage,'  you  mean  ?  I  can't 
see  that  now.  Uncle  Rupert  is  in  front  of  it. 
I  thought  you  put  him  there.  Only  he's  out 
of  his  frame,  and  —  it's  very  odd  !  " 

"  What's  odd,  my  darling?  " 

"  Some  one  has  wiped  away  all  the  tears 
from  his  eyes." 

******* 

"  Hymn  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  :  '  Fight 
the  good  fight  of  faith.'  " 


126         THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

The  third  Collect  was  just  ended,  and  a  pro- 
longed and  somewhat  irregular  Amen  was  dying 
away  among  the  choir,  who  were  beginning*  to 
feel  for  their  hymn-books. 

The  lack  of  precision,  the  "  dropping  shots  " 
style  in  which  that  Amen  was  delivered,  would 
have  been  more  exasperating  to  the  Kapell- 
meister, if  his  own  attention  had  not  been  for 
the  moment  diverted  by  anxiety  to  know  if  the 
V.  C.  remembered  that  the  time  had  come. 

As  the  chaplain  gave  out  the  hymn,  the 
Kapellmeister  gave  one  glance  of  an  eye,  as 
searching  as  it  was  sombre,  round  the  corner  of 
that  odd  little  curtain  which  it  is  the  custom  to 
hang  behind  an  organist;  and  this  sufficing  to 
tell  him  that  the  V.  C.  had  not  forgotten,  he 
drew  out  certain  very  vocal  stops,  and  bending 
himself  to  manual  and  pedal,  gave  forth  the 
popular  melody  of  the  "Tug-of-War"  hymn 
with  a  precision  indicative  of  a  resolution  to 
have  it  sung  in  strict  time,  or  know  the  reason 
why. 

And  as  nine  hundred  and  odd  men  rose  to 
their  feet  with  some  clatter  of  heavy  boots  and 
accoutrements  the  V.  C.  turned  quietly  out  of 
the  crowded  church,  and  stood  outside  upon 
the  steps,  bareheaded  in  the  sunshine  of  St. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  127 

Martin's  Little  Summer,  and  with  the  tiniest  of 
hymn-books  between  his  fingers  and  thumb. 

Circumstances  had  made  a  soldier  of  the 
V.  C.,  but  by  nature  he  was  a  student.  When 
he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes  to 
get  a  mental  grasp  of  the  hymn  before  he  began 
to  sing  it,  he  committed  the  first  four  lines  to 
an  intelligence  sufficiently  trained  to  hold  them 
in  remembrance  for  the  brief  time  that  it  would 
take  to  sing  them.  Involuntarily  his  active 
brain  did  more,  and  was  crossed  by  a  critical 
sense  of  the  crude,  barbaric  taste  of  childhood, 
and  a  wonder  what  consolation  the  suffering 
boy  could  find  in  these  gaudy  lines : — 

"  The,  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  kingly  crown  to  gain ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar; 
Who  follows  in  His  train?" 

But  when  he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to 
his  eyes  to  take  in  the  next  four  lines,  they 
started  him  with  the  revulsion  of  a  sudden  sym- 
pathy; and  lifting  his  face  towards  the  barrack 
master's  hut,  he  sang  —  as  he  rarely  sang  in 
drawing-rooms,  even  words  the  most  felicitous 
to  melodies  the  most  sweet  —  sang  not  only  to 
the  delight  of  dying  ears,  but  so  that  the 


128          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Kapellmeister  himself  heard  him,  and  smiled  as 
he  heard : — 

"  Who  best  can  drink  His  cup  of  woe 

Triumphant  over  pain, 
Who  patient  bears  His  cross  below, 
He  follows  in  His  train." 


On  each  side  of  Leonard's  bed,  like  guardian 
angels,  knelt  his  father  and  mother.  At  his 
feet  lay  the  Sweep,  who  now  and  then  lifted  a 
long,  melancholy  nose  and  anxious  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  barrack 
master.  He  had  taken  up  this  position  at  the 
request  of  the  Master  of  the  House,  who  had 
avoided  any  further  allusion  to  Leonard's  fancy 
that  their  Naseby  ancestor  had  come  to  Asholt 
Camp,  but  had  begged  his  big  brother-in-law  to 
stand  there  and  blot  out  Uncle  Rupert's  ghost 
with  his  substantial  body. 

But  whether  Leonard  perceived  the  ruse,  for- 
got Uncle  Rupert,  or  saw  him  all  the  same,  by 
no  word  or  sign  did  he  ever  betray. 

Near  the  window  sat  Aunt  Adelaide,  with  her 
Prayer-book,  following  the  service  in  her  own 
orderly  and  pious  fashion,  sometimes  saying  a 
prayer  aloud  at  Leonard's  bidding,  and  anon 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  1 29 

replying  to  his  oft-repeated  inquiry:  "  Is  it  the 
third  Collect  yet,  Aunty  dear?" 

She  had  turned  her  head,  more  quickly  than 
usual,  to  speak,  when,  clear  and  strenuous  on 
vocal  stops,  came  the  melody  of  the  "Tug-of- 
War  "  hymn. 

"  There  !  There  it  is  !  Oh,  good  Kapell- 
meister !  Mother  dear,  -please  go  to  the  win- 
dow and  see  if  V.  C.  is  there,  and  wave  your 
hand  to  him.  Father  dear,  lift  me  up  a  little, 
please.  Ah,  now  I  hear  him  !  Good  V.  C. ! 
I  don't  believe  you'll  sing  better  than  that  when 
you're  promoted  to  be  an  angel.  Are  the  men 
singing  pretty  loud?  May  I  have  a  little  of 
that  stuff  to  keep  me  from  coughing,  mother 
dear?  You  know  I  am  not  impatient;  but  I  do 
hope,  please  God,  I  sha'n't  die  till  I've  just 
heard  them  tug  that  verse  once  more !  " 
******* 

The  sight  of  Lady  Jane  had  distracted  the 
V.  C.'s  thoughts  from  the  hymn.  He  was  sing- 
ing mechanically,  when  he  became  conscious  of 
some  increasing  pressure  and  irregularity  in  the 
time.  Then  he  remembered  what  it  was.  The 
soldiers  were  beginning  to  tug. 

In  a  moment  more  the  organ  stopped,  and  the 
V.  C.  found  himself,  with  over  three  hundred 


130          THE   STORY    OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

men  at  his  back,  singing  without  accompani- 
ment, and  in  unison, — 

"  A  noble  army —  men  and  boys, 

The  matron  and  the  maid, 
Around  their  Saviour's  throne  rejoice, 
In  robes  of  white  arrayed." 

The  Kapellmeister  conceded  that  verse  to  the 
shouts  of  the  congregation ;  but  he  invariably 
reclaimed  control  over  the  last. 

Even  now,  as  the  men  paused  to  take  breath 
after  their  "tug,"  the  organ  spoke  again,  softly, 
but  seraphically,  and  clearer  and  sweeter  above 
the  voices  behind  him  rose  the  voice  of  the  V. 
C.,  singing  to  his  little  friend, — 

"  They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  Heaven 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain—  " 

The  men  sang  on ;  but  the  V.  C.  stopped,  as  if 
he  had  been  shot.  For  a  man's  hand  had  come 
to  the  barrack  master's  window  and  pulled  the 
white  blind  down. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  131 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged-bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown." 

—  Henry  Vaughan. 

TRUE  to  its  character  as  an  emblem  of  human 
life,  the  camp  stands  on,  with  all  its  little  man- 
ners and  customs,  whilst  the  men  who  garrison 
it  pass  rapidly  away. 

Strange  as  the  vicissitudes  of  a  whole  genera- 
tion elsewhere,  are  the  changes  and  chances 
that  a  few  years  bring  to  those  who  were  sta- 
tioned there  together. 

To  what  unforeseen  celebrity  (or  to  a  drop- 
ping out  of  one's  life  and  even  hearsay  that 
once  seemed  quite  as  little  likely)  do  one's  old 
neighbors  sometimes  come !  They  seem  to 
pass  in  a  few  drill  seasons  as  other  men  pass  by 
lifetimes.  Some  to  foolishness  and  forgetful- 
ness,  and  some  to  fame.  This  old  acquaintance 
to  unexpected  glory ;  that  dear  friend  —  alas  !  — 
to  the  grave.  And  some  —  God  speed  them  !  — 
to  the  world's  end  and  back,  following  the  drum 
till  it  leads  them  home  again,  with  familiar  faces 


132          THE   STORY    OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

little  changed  —  with  boys  and  girls,  perchance, 
very  greatly  changed  —  and  with  hearts  not 
changed  at  all.  Can  the  last  parting  do  much 
to  hurt  such  friendships  between  good  souls, 
who  have  so  long  learned  to  say  farewell ;  to 
love  in  absence,  to  trust  through  silence,  and  to 
have  faith  in  reunion? 

The  barrack  master's  appointment  was  an  un- 
usually permanent  one  ;  and  he  and  his  wife  lived 
on  in  Asholt  Camp,  and  saw  regiments  come  and 
go,  as  O'Reilly  had  prophesied,  and  threw  out 
additional  rooms  and  bow-windows,  and  took  in 
more  garden,  and  kept  a  cow  on  a  bit  of  govern- 
ment grass  beyond  the  stores,  and  —  with  the 
man  who  did  the  roofs,  the  church  orderly,  and 
one  or  two  other  public  characters  —  came  to 
be  reckoned  among  the  oldest  inhabitants. 

George  went  away  pretty  soon  with  his  regi- 
ment. He  was  a  good,  straightforward  young 
fellow,  with  a  dogged  devotion  to  duty,  and  a 
certain  provincialism  of  intellect,  and  general 
John  Bullishness,  which  he  inherited  from  his 
father,  who  had  inherited  it  from  his  country 
forefathers.  He  inherited  equally  a  certain 
romantic,  instinctive,  and  immovable  high- 
mindedness,  not  invariably  characteristic  of 
much  more  brilliant  men. 


THE    STORY   OF   A    SHORT   LIFE.  133 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  his  little  cousin, 
and  Leonard's  death  was  a  natural  grief  to  him. 
The  funeral  tried  his  fortitude,  and  his  detesta- 
tion of  "  scenes,"  to  the  very  uttermost. 

Like  most  young  men  who  had  the  honor  to 
know  her,  George's  devotion  to  his  beautiful 
and  gracious  aunt,  Lady  Jane,  had  had  in  it 
something  of  the  nature  of  worship;  but  now 
he  was  almost  glad  he  was  going  away,  and  not 
likely  to  see  her  face  for  a  long  time,  because  it 
made  him  feel  miserable  to  see  her,  and  he 
objected  to  feeling  miserable  both  on  principle 
and  in  practice.  His  peace  of  mind  was  as- 
sailed, however,  from  a  wholly  unexpected 
quarter,  and  one  which  pursued  him  even  more 
abroad  than  at  home. 

The  barrack  master's  son  had  been  shocked 
by  his  cousin's  death ;  but  the  shock  was  really 
and  truly  greater  when  he  discovered,  by  chance 
gossip,  and  certain  society  indications,  that  the 
calamity  which  left  Lady  Jane  childless  had 
made  him  his  uncle's  presumptive  heir.  The 
almost  physical  disgust  which  the  discovery 
that  he  had  thus  acquired  some  little  social 
prestige  produced  in  this  subaltern  of  a  march- 
ing regiment  must  be  hard  to  comprehend  by 
persons  of  more  imagination  and  less  sturdy 


134          THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

independence,  or  by  scholars  in  the  science  of 
success.  But  man  differs  widely  from  man,  and 
it  is  true. 

He    had    been  nearly  two    years  in  Canada 


when  "  the  English  mail "  caused  him  to  fling 
his  fur  cap  into  the  air  with  such  demonstra- 
tions of  delight  as  greatly  aroused  the  curiosity 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  135 

of  his  comrades,  and,  as  he  bolted  to  his 
quarters  without  further  explanation  than 
"  Good  news  from  home !  "  a  rumor  was  for 
some  time  current  that  "  Jones  had  come  into 
his  fortune." 

Safe  in  his  own  quarters,  he  once  more  ap- 
plied himself  to  his  mother's  letter,  and  picked 
up  the  thread  of  a  passage  which  ran  thus:  — 

"Your  dear  father  gets  very  impatient,  and  I  long  to 
be  back  in  my  hut  again  and  see  after  my  flowers,  which 
I  can  trust  to  no  one  since  O'Reilly  took  his  discharge. 
The  little  conservatory  is  like  a  new  toy  to  me,  but  it  is 
very  tiny,  and  your  dear  father  is  worse  than  no  use  in 
it,  as  he  says  himself.  However,  I  can't  leave  Lady 
Jane  till  she  is  quite  strong.  The  baby  is  a  noble  little 
fellow  and  really  beautiful  —  which  I  know  you  won't  be- 
lieve, but  that's  because  you  know  nothing  about  babies : 
not  so  beautiful  as  Leonard,  of  course  —  that  could  never 
be  —  but  a  fine,  healthy,  handsome  boy,  with  eyes  that 
do  remind  one  of  his  darling  brother.  I  know,  dear 
George,  how  greatly  you  always  did  admire  and  appre- 
ciate your  aunt.  Not  one  bit  too  much,  my  son.  She  is 
the  noblest  woman  I  have  ever  known.  We  have  had  a 
very  happy  time  together,  and  I  pray  it  may  please  God 
to  spare  this  child  to  be  the  comfort  to  her  that  you  are 
and  have  been  to 

"Your  loving  "  MOTHER." 

This  was  the  good  news  from  home  that  had 
sent  the  young  subaltern's  fur  cap  into  the  air, 
and  that  now  sent  him  to  his  desk ;  the  last 
place  where,  as  a  rule,  he  enjoyed  himself. 


136          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

Poor  scribe  as  he  was,  however,  he  wrote  two 
letters  then  and  there ;  one  to  his  mother,  and 
one  of  impetuous  congratulations  to  his  uncle, 
full  of  messages  to  Lady  Jane. 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter 
more  than  once.  It  pleased  him. 

In  his  own  way  he  was  quite  as  unworldly  as 
his  nephew,  but  it  was  chiefly  from  a  philo- 
sophic contempt  for  many  things  that  worldly 
folk  struggle  for,  and  a  connoisseurship  in 
sources  of  pleasure  not  purchasable  except  by 
the  mentally  endowed,  and  not  even  valuable 
to  George,  as  he  knew.  And  he  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  a  somewhat  cynical  student  of 
character. 

After  the  third  reading  he  took  it,  smiling,  to 
Lady  Jane's  morning-room,  where  she  was  sitting, 
looking  rather  pale,  with  her  fine  hair  "  coming 
down  "  over  a  tea-gown  of  strange  tints  of  her 
husband's  choosing,  and  with  the  new  baby 
lying  in  her  lap. 

He  shut  the  door  noiselessly,  took  a  footstool 
to  her  feet,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

•'You  look  like  a  Romney,  Jane,  —  an  un- 
finished Romney,  for  you  are  too  white.  If 
you've  got  a  headache,  you  sha'n't  hear  this 
letter  which  I  know  you'd  like  to  hear." 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  137 

"  I  see  that  I  should.  Canada  postmarks. 
It's  George." 

"  Yes ;  it's  George.  He's  uproariously  de- 
lighted at  the  advent  of  this  little  chap." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  he'd  be  that.  Let  me  hear 
what  he  says." 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter. 
Lady  Jane's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  tender 
references  to  Leonard,  but  she  smiled  through 
them. 

"  He's  a  dear,  good  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  dear,  good  fellow.  It's  a  most 
borne  intellect,  but  excellence  itself.  And  I'm 
bound  to  say,"  added  the  Master  of  the  House, 
driving  his  hands  through  the  jungle  of  his  hair, 
"  that  there  is  a  certain  excellence  about  a 
soldier  when  he  is  a  good  fellow  that  seems  to 
be  a  thing  per  se." 

After  meditating  on  this  matter  for  some 
moments,  he  sprang  up  and  vigorously  rang 
the  bell. 

"Jane,  you're  terribly  white;  you  can  bear 
nothing.  Nurse  is  to  take  that  brat  at  once, 
and  I'm  going  to  carry  you  into  the  garden." 

Always  much  given  to  the  collection  and 
care  of  precious  things,  and  apt  also  to  change 
his  fads  and  to  pursue  each  with  partiality  for 


138          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

the  moment,  the  Master  of  the  House  had,  for 
some  time  past,  been  devoting  all  his  thoughts 
and  his  theories  to  the  preservation  of  a  pos- 
session not  less  valuable  than  the  paragon  of 
Chippendale  chairs,  and  much  more  destructi- 
ble —  he  was  taking  care  of  his  good  wife. 

Many  family  treasures  are  lost  for  lack  of  a 
little  timely  care  and  cherishing,  and  there  are 
living  "  examples  "  as  rare  as  most  bric-a-brac, 
and  quite  as  perishable.  Lady  Jane  was  one 
of  them,  and  after  Leonard's  death,  with  no 
motive  for  keeping  up,  she  sank  into  a  condi- 
tion of  weakness  so  profound  that  it  became 
evident  that,  unless  her  failing  forces  were 
fostered,  she  would  not  long  be  parted  from 
her  son. 

Her  husband  had  taken  up  his  poem  again, 
to  divert  his  mind  from  his  own  grief;  but  he 
left  it  behind,  and  took  Lady  Jane  abroad. 

Once  roused,  he  brought  to  the  task  of  coax- 
ing her  back  to  life  an  intelligence  that  gener- 
ally insured  the  success  of  his  aims,  and  he 
succeeded  now.  Lady  Jane  got  well ;  out  of 
sheer  gratitude,  she  said. 

Leonard's  military  friends  do  not  forget  him. 
They  are  accustomed  to  remember  the  absent. 

With  the  death  of  his  little  friend  the  V.  C. 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  139 

quits  these  pages.  He  will  be  found  in  the 
pages  of  history. 

The  Kapellmeister  is  a  fine  organist,  and  a 
few  musical  members  of  the  congregation,  of  all 
ranks,  have  a  knack  of  lingering  after  Evensong 
at  the  Iron  Church  to  hear  him  "  play  away  the 
people."  But  on  the  Sunday  after  Leonard's 
death  the  congregation  rose  and  remained  en 
masse  as  the  Dead  March  from  Saul  spoke  in 
solemn  and  familiar  tones  the  requiem  of  a 
hero's  soul. 

Blind  Baby's  father  was  a  Presbyterian,  and 
disapproved  of  organs,  but  he  was  a  fond  parent, 
and  his  blind  child  had  heard  tell  that  the  officer 
who  played  the  organ  so  grandly  was  to  play 
the  Dead  March  on  the  Sabbath  evening  for  the 
little  gentleman  that  died  on  the  Sabbath  pre- 
vious, and  he  was  wild  to  go  and  hear  it.  Then 
the  service  would  be  past,  and  the  Kapellmeis- 
ter was  a  fellow-Scot,  and  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing has  a  powerful  attraction  for  that  serious 
race,  and  for  one  reason  or  another  Corporal 
Macdonald  yielded  to  the  point  of  saying, 
"  Aweel,  if  you're  a  gude  bairn,  I'll  tak  ye  to 
the  kirk  door,  and  ye  may  lay  your  lug  at  the 
chink,  and  hear  what  ye  can." 

But  when  they  got  there  the  door  was  open, 


140         THE   STORY  OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

and  Blind  Baby  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  as  if  the  organ  had  drawn  him  with  a 
rope,  straight  to  the  Kapellmeister's  side. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  much  to 
Blind  Baby's  advantage,  which  did  not  end  when 
the  child  had  been  sent  to  a  blind  school,  and 
then  to  a  college  where  he  learnt  to  be  a  tuner, 
and  "earned  his  own  living." 

Poor  Jemima  fretted  so  bitterly  for  the  loss  of 
the  child  she  had  nursed  with  such  devotion, 
that  there  was  possibly  some  truth  in  O'Reilly's 
rather  complicated  assertion  that  he  married 
her  because  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  cry. 

He  took  his  discharge,  and  was  installed  by 
the  Master  of  the  House  as  lodge-keeper  at  the 
gates  through  which  he  had  so  often  passed  as 
"  a  tidy  one." 

Freed  from  military  restraints,  he  became  a 
very  untidy  one  indeed,  and  grew  hair  in  such 
reckless  abundance  that  he  came  to  look  like  an 
curang-outang  with  an  unusally  restrained  figure 
and  exceptionally  upright  carriage. 

He  was  the  best  of  husbands  every  flay  in 
the  year  but  the  i/th  of  March;  and  Jemima 
enjoyed  herself  very  much  as  she  boasted  to  the 
wives  of  less  handy  civilians  that  "  her  man 
was  as  good  as  a  woman  about  the  house,  any 


THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  141 

day."  (Any  day,  that  is,  except  the  i/th  of 
March.) 

With  window-plants  cunningly  and  ornamen- 
tally enclosed  by  a  miniature  paling  and  gate, 
as  if  the  window-sill  were  a  hut  garden ;  with 
colored  tissue-paper  flycatchers  made  on  the 
principle  of  barrack-room  Christmas  decora- 
tions;  with  shelves,  brackets,  Oxford  frames, 
and  other  efforts  of  the  decorative  joinery  of 
O'Reilly's  evenings ;  with  a  large,  hard  sofa, 
chairs,  elbow-chairs,  and  antimacassars ;  and 
with  a  round  table  in  the  middle,  —  the  Lodge 
parlor  is  not  a  room  to  live  in,  but  it  is  almost 
bewildering  to  peep  into,  and  curiously  like  the 
shrine  of  some  departed  saint,  so  highly  framed 
are  the  photographs  of  Leonard's  lovely  face, 
and  so  numerous  are  his  relics. 

The  fate  of  Leonard's  dog  may  not  readily 
be  guessed. 

The  gentle  reader  would  not  deem  it  un- 
natural were  I  to  chronicle  that  he  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  Failing  this  excess  of  sensibility, 
it  seems  obvious  that  he  should  have  attached 
himself  immovably  to  Lady  Jane,  and  have  lived 
at  ease  and  died  full  of  dignity  in  his  little  mas- 
ter's ancestral  halls.  He  did  go  back  there  for 
a  short  time,  but  the  day  after  the  funeral  he 


142          THE   STORY   OF   A   SHORT   LIFE. 

disappeared.  When  word  came  to  the  house- 
hold that  he  was  missing  and  had  not  been  seen 
since  he  was  let  out  in  the  morning,  the  butler 
put  on  his  hat  and  hurried  off  with  a  beating 
heart  to  Leonard's  grave. 

But  the  Sweep  was  not  there,  dead  or  alive. 
He  was  at  that  moment  going  at  a  sling  trot 
along  the  dusty  road  that  led  into  the  camp. 
Timid  persons,  imperfectly  acquainted  with  dogs, 
avoided  him  ;  he  went  so  very  straight,  it  looked 
like  hydrophobia ;  men  who  knew  better,  and 
saw  that  he  was  only  "  on  urgent  private  affairs," 
chaffed  him  as  they  passed,  and  some  with  little 
canes  and  horseplay  waylaid  and  tried  to  inter- 
cept him.  But  he  was  a  big  dog,  and  made 
himself  respected,  and  pursued  his  way. 

His  way  was  to  the  barrack  master's  hut. 

The  first  room  he  went  into  was  that  in  which 
Leonard  died.  He  did  not  stay  there  three 
minutes.  Then  he  went  to  Leonard's  own  room, 
the  little  one  next  to  the  kitchen,  and  this  he 
examined  exhaustively,  crawling  under  the 
bed,  snuffing  at  both  doors,  and  lifting  his  long 
nose  against  hope  to  investigate  impossible 
places,  such  as  the  top  of  the  military  chest  of 
drawers.  Then  he  got  on  to  the  late  General's 
camp  bed  and  went  to  sleep. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  143 

He  was  awakened  by  the  smell  of  the  bacon 
frying  for  breakfast,  and  he  had  breakfast  with 
the  family.  After  this  he  went  out,  and  was 
seen  by  different  persons  at  various  places  in 
the  camp,  the  general  parade,  the  stores,  and 
the  Iron  Church,  still  searching. 

He  was  invited  to  dinner  in  at  least  twenty 
different  barrack-rooms,  but  he  rejected  all 
overtures  till  he  met  O'Reilly,  when  he  turned 
round  and  went  back  to  dine  with  him  and  his 
comrades. 

He  searched  Leonard's  room  once  more,  and 
not  rinding  him,  he  refused  to  make  his  home 
with  the  barrack  master ;  possibly  because  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  have  a  home  at 
all  till  he  could  have  one  with  Leonard. 

Half  a  dozen  of  Leonard's  officer  friends 
would  willingly  have  adopted  him,  but  he 
would  not  own  another  master.  Then  military 
dogs  are  apt  to  attach  themselves  exclusively 
either  to  commissioned  or  to  non-commissioned 
soldiers,  and  the  Sweep  cast  in  his  lot  with  the 
men,  and  slept  on  old  coats  in  corners  of 
barrack-rooms,  and  bided  his  time.  Dogs' 
masters  do  get  called  away  suddenly  and  come 
back  again.  The  Sweep  had  his  hopes,  and 
did  not  commit  himself. 


144          THE    STORY   OF   A   SHORT    LIFE. 

Even  if,  at  length,  he  realized  that  Leonard 
had  passed  beyond  this  life's  outposts,  it  roused 
in  him  no  instincts  to  return  to  the  Hall.  With 
a  somewhat  sublime  contempt  for  those  shreds 
of  poor  mortality  laid  to  rest  in  the  family 
vault,  he  elected  to  live  where  his  little  master 
had  been  happiest —  in  Asholt  Camp. 

Now  and  then  he  became  excited.  It  was 
when  a  fresh  regiment  marched  in.  On  these 
occasions  he  invariably  made  so  exhaustive  an 
examination  of  the  regiment  and  its  baggage, 
as  led  to  his  being  more  or  less  forcibly  adopted 
by  half  a  dozen  good-natured  soldiers  who  had 
had  to  leave  their  previous  pets  behind  them. 
But  when  he  found  that  Leonard  had  not  re- 
turned with  that  detachment,  he  shook  off 
everybody  and  went  back  to  O'Reilly. 

When  O'Reilly  married  he  took  the  Sweep  to 
the  Lodge,  who  thereupon  instituted  a  search 
about  the  house  and  grounds ;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  not  expected  any  good  results, 
and  when  he  did  not  find  Leonard  he  went 
away  quickly  down  the  old  Elm  Avenue.  As 
he  passed  aloflg  the  dusty  road  that  led  to 
camp  for  the  last  time,  he  looked  back  now  and 
again  with  sad  eyes  to  see  if  O'Reilly  was  not 
coming  too.  Then  he  returned  to  the  barrack- 


THE    STORY    OF   A   SHORT   LIFE.  145 

room,  where  he  was  greeted  with  uproarious 
welcome,  and  eventually  presented  with  a  new 
collar  by  subscription.  And  so,  rising  with 
gun  fire  and  resting  with  "  lights  out,"  he  lived 
and  died  a  soldier's  dog. 

******* 

The  new  heir  thrives  at  the  Hall.  He  has 
brothers  and  sisters  to  complete  the  natural 
happiness  of  his  home,  he  has  good  health, 


good  parents,  and  is  having  a  good  education. 
He  will  have  a  goodly  heritage.  He  is  develop- 
ing nearly  as  vigorous  a  fancy  for  soldiers  as 
Leonard  had,  and  drills  his  brothers  and  sisters 
with  the  help  of  O'Reilly.  If  he  wishes  to 
make  arms  his  profession  he  will  not  be 
thwarted,  for  the  Master  of  the  House  has 


146          THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 

decided  that  it  is  in  many  respects  a  desirable 
and  wholesome  career  for  an  eldest  son.  Lady 
Jane  may  yet  have  to  buckle  on  a  hero's  sword. 
Brought  up  by  such  a  mother  in  the  fear  of 
God,  he  ought  to  be  good,  he  may  live  to  be 
great,  it's  odds  if  he  cannot  be  happy.  But 
never,  not  in  the  "one  crowded  hour  of 
glorious "  victory,  not  in  years  of  the  softest 
comforts  of  a  peaceful  home,  by  no  virtues  and 
in  no  success  shall  he  bear  more  fitly  than  his 
crippled  brother  bore  the  ancient  motto  of  their 
house : — 

"laetus  Sortc  dfcea." 


CHARMING  JUVENILE  SERIES 


A  Series  of  Short   Original   Stories,   or   Reprint*  of  Well-known 
Favorites  for  the  Young. 

PRICE    FIFTY   CENTS    EACH. 

A  LOYAL  LITTLE   MAID.     By  EDITH  ROBINSON. 

THE  LITTLE  COLONEL.    By  ANNIE   FELLOWS- JOHNSTON. 

BIG  BROTHER.     By  ANNIE  FELLOWS- JOHNSTON. 

THE  LITTLE  LAME  PRINCE.     By  Miss  MULOCH. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  BROWNIE.    By  Miss  MULOCH. 

HIS  LITTLE  MOTHER.    By  Miss  MULOCH. 

WEE    DOROTHY'S     TRUE   VALENTINE.        By    LAURA    UPDE- 

(TRAFF. 

LA  BELLE  NIVERNAISE.    The   Story  of  an   Old   Boat  and  her 
Crew.     By  AI.PHONSE  DAUDET. 

THE  TRINITY  FLOWER.     By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.     By  DR.  JOHN  BROWN. 
THE   KING   OF  THE  GOLDEN  RIVER.      A   Legend   of  Stiria. 
JACKANAPES.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 

THE  YOUNG  KING.    THE  STAR  CHILD.    Two  Tales  by  OSCAR 
WILDE. 

Published   by   JOSEPH    KNIGHT  COMPANY. 

196  SUMMER  STREET,  BOSTON. 


Books  for  Boys  and  Girls. 

The  Young  Pearl  Divers. 

A  story  of  Australian  adventure  by  land  and  sea.  By  LIEUT.  H. 
PHELPS  WHITMARSH.  Author  of  "The  Mysterious  Voyage  of  the 
Daphne,"  etc.  i  vol.,  cloth,  I2mo,  illustrated,  $i.2v 

This  is  a  splendid  story  for  boys,  by  an  author  who  writes  in  vigorous  and  interest- 
ing language  of  scenes  and  adventures  with  which  he  is  personally  acquainted. 

The  book  is  illustrated  with  twelve  full-page  half-tones  by  H.  Burgess,  whose 
drawings  have  exactly  caught  the  spirited  tone  of  the  narrative. 

Feats  On  The  Fiord. 

By  HARRIET  MARTINEAU.  A  tale  of  Norwegian  life,  with  about 
sixty  original  illustrations  and  a  colored  frontispiece.  I  vol.,  small 
quarto,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

This  admirable  book,  read  and  enjoyed  by  so  many  young  people  a  generation  ago 
and  now  partially  forgotten,  deserves  to  be  brought  to  the  attention  of  parents  in  < 
search  of  wholesome  reading  for  their  children  to-day.  It  is  something  more  than  a 
juvenile  book,  being  really  one  of  the  most  instructive  books  about  Norway  and 
Norwegian  life  and  manners  ever  written,  well  deserving  liberal  illustration  and 
the  luxury  of  good  paper  now  given  to  it. 

The  Fairy  Folk  of  Blue  Hill. 

A  story  of  folk-lore  by  LILY  F.  WESSELHOEFT,  author  of 
"  Sparrow  the  Tramp,"  etc.,  with  fifty-five  illustrations  from  original 
drawings  by  Alfred  C.  Eastman,  i  vol.,  i6mo,  fancy  cloth,  Si.  25. 


A  new  volume  by  MRS.  WESSELHOEFT,  well  known  as  one  of  our  best  writers  for 

5,  and  who 
I  her  deligli      ' 
who  has  read  her  earlier  books. 


.  , 

the  young,  and  who  has  made  a  host  of  friends  among  the  young  people  who  have 
er  delightful  books.     This  book  ought  to  interest  and  appeal  to  every  child 


Miss   Gray's    Girls;   or,  Summer   Days   in   the  Scottish 
Highlands. 

By  JEANNETTE  A.  GRANT.  With  about  sixty  illustrations  in  half- 
tone and  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  Scottish  scenery,  i  vol.,  small 
quarto,  cloth  and  ornamental  side,  $1.50. 

A  pleasantly  told  story  of  a  summer  trip  through  Scotland,  somewhat  out  of  the 
beaten  track.  A  teacher,  starting  at  Glasgow,  takes  a  lively  party  of  girls,  her 
pupils,  through  the  Trossachs  to  Oban,  through  the  Caledonian  Canal  to  Inver- 
ness, and  as  far  north  as  F.rora,  missing  no  part  of  the  matchless  scenery  and  no 
place  of  historic  interest.  Returning  through  Perth.  Stirling,  Edinburgh.  "Meiruse, 
and  Abbotsford,  the  enjoyment  of  the  party  and  the  interest  of  the  reader  never 
lag.  With  all  the  sightseeing,  not  the  least  interesting  features  of  the  book  are 
the  glimpses  of  Scottish  home  life  which  the  party  from  time  to  time  are  fortunate 
enough  to  be  able  to  enjoy  through  the  kindly  hospitality  of  friends. 

Published  by  JOSEPH  KNIGHT  COMPANY, 
196  Summer  St.,  Boston,  Mass. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
Tliis  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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IflCf  LW 

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DEC  12  1989 


)m-7,'70(N8475s8) — C-120 


3  1158  01066  8167 


